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Girlish forecastings. 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS 


BY 

CARRIE ADELAIDE COOKE 

Author of “From June to June” 



Our to-days and yesterdays 

Are the blocks with which we build. 

H. W. Longfellow. 


t/J.R 111882 

^ of w AS hinG^ 0 : 


D. LOTHROP & COMPANY 


FRANKLIN STREET 


Copyright, 1882. 


D. Lothrop & Company. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I. 

GIRLISH FORECASTINGS 7 

CHAPTER II. 

HOMEWARD 30 

CHAPTER III. 

SCHOOL-TEACHING 42 

CHAPTER IV. 

TWO PICTURES 68 

CHAPTER V. 

THE QUIET CHAMBER 87 

CHAPTER VI. 

LONGINGS * 104 


iii 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER VII. 

TOGETHER AGAIN 115 

CHAPTER VIII. 

THE ANNIVERSARY 138 

CHAPTER IX. 

WHEAT, OR TARES ? 152 

CHAPTER X. 

I WILL NOT 170 

CHAPTER XI. 

HOPES AND FEARS 188 

CHAPTER XII. 

AT LAST 199 

CHAPTER XIII. 

GOING TO BATTLE 214 

CHAPTER XIV. 

THE PARTING 222 

CHAPTER XV. 

COMING INTO THE CHURCH 234 

CHAPTER XVI. 

WHAT THE FLOWERS SAID 240 


CONTENTS. 


V 


CHAPTER XVII. 

HELPED 253 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE WINTER 267 

CHAPTER XIX. 

THE BEAUTIFUL FACE 286 

CHAPTER XX. 

THE PROPHECY DEFEATED 292 

CHAPTER XXI. 

THE REUNION 304 

CHAPTER XXII. 

LAST GLIMPSES 820 

/ 



TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


CHAPTER* I. 

GIRLISH FORECASTINGS. 

ES, Louise, let’s go up into Margaret’s 



Ji room. It is the coziest one of all, and 
we want to enjoy ourselves this last evening. 
The very last, Bertie child! — can you realize it 
— that we shall not see the sun set behind 
dear old Merrivale hills again? Just look 
out now, and make the most of it ! ” 

The last strong rays stole into the room, hold- 
ing its occupants in a transient flood of radi- 
ance. Bertie Arnold and Louise Carroll, arm 
in arm, stood looking out, taking in, with wist- 
ful earnestness, every detail of the quiet, 
familiar picture — the summer fields, with their 


8 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


waving corn, the fruit-laden orchards, the mur- 
muring brook, that seemed, to-night, to be 
bluer and clearer than ever, and beyond these, 
the slow-rising hills that reached at last to 
grim old Mt. Ascutney. 

Bertie’s looking ended in a sigh. “ Let’s go 
up-stairs,” she said; and her voice had a very 
quiet sound, as if some quick, strong feeling 
might have trembled through it, but for the 
strong will that repressed it. 

Louise was twining one of her friend’s 
golden curls around her fingers. Her regrets 
caqie to the surface. She didn’t comprehend 
the un uttered pain that made Bertie’s blue 
eyes, for the moment, dreamy and shadowed. 

“ Yes, I’m ready ; only — do you suppose 
Miss Precision has finished her packing ? 
She would look us quite out of the room if 
we intruded during that ordeal.” 

The merry good humor of her voice showed 
the words to be kindly and half-jesting. 

“Yes, she is at leisure. I know she wants 


GIRLISH FORECASTINGS. 


9 


to see us.” Then with a little impatient shrug 
of her shoulders, “Why, what a stupid I am 
to-night! She ashed us to come, when I was 
up there a while ago. What made me forget 
to tell you that, I wonder.” 

“I guess you looked your thoughts all away 
just now. Well, then, we’ll go, and, if she is 
in the mood, have one more nice, gay even- 
ing in Margaret’s room. Bertie, I’m glad walls 
can’t speak. I wouldn’t want a lot of ‘ new 
girls’ to get any echoes of all our treasured 
talks.” 

Bertie didn’t reply. She was brushing her 
hair at the little mirror, and just then seemed 
intent upon drawing a blue ribbon daintily 
through its rippling waves. 

“Primping, are you? ‘ Prettifying,’ as Gracie 
says. Well, I need it, too.” She whisked oft 
her quiet net and velvet. “ Seeing as Margaret 
has never beheld us, it will pay to fix up, 
though my beauty is of a positive order, and 
doesn’t need any help. 


10 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


“ Look here, Bertie, quick ! There ! I’ve got 
just the right focus of light on my nose. Can’t 
you read ‘ Excelsior ’ on it ? ” 

She shook her head with a defiant little laugh. 
Louise’s nose was a constant trial to her, and 
her frequent allusions to the unfortunate feature 
made it almost impossible for the girls to forget 
what otherwise they would hardly have thought 
of — that it was slightly retrouss^ ; indeed, inclined 
to be a pug nose. She, however, enjoyed the 
monopoly of abusing it. If any one else ventured 
to allude to the offending member, Louise’s tone 
changed. “ Poor nose ! ” she would apostrophize ; 
“I’ll stand up for you since you, stand up so 
bravely for yourself.” And the critic — who- 
ever she might be — generally changed the sub- 
ject at the first of Louise’s seemingly random 
thrusts at herself. 

To-night, the same light that revealed the 
figurative “ Excelsior,” showed, too, pink dimpled 
cheeks, smiling mouth — not in the least like a 
“rose-bud,” but very sweet withal — alow white 


GIRLISH FORECASTINGS. 


11 


forehead, shaded by thick brown hair, and light- 
ing up her face with changeful brilliancy, a pair 
of clear brown eyes that emphasized and strength- 
ened their owner’s right to be considered one 
of the belles of the school. 

As she finished her slight preparations and 
turned toward Bertie, she presented a strong 
contrast to the face opposite. 

Looking at Bertie Arnold carelessly, you might 
have pronounced her sweet, but childish ; a com- 
prehending scrutiny would make you change 
the verdict. I always thought of her quiet 
face and earnest nature as intense . 

These two girls were room-mates — “ chums,” 
“ inseparables ” — at the boarding-school of Merri- 
vale. Coming there at the same time — four 
years before my story opens — they had main- 
tained a close friendship ever since. Their 
class had just graduated two days before this 
time, and they were no longer “ school-girls.” 

“ What can they do without us ? ” Louise 
would exclaim as she met one and another 


12 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


of their number wandering disconsolately through 
the half-dismantled rooms. “We’ve been the 
pillars of this institution for so long, that it 
will totter to its very foundation. I’m glad 
enough to be emancipated, but oh ! I pity the 
few who remain.” 

In spite of which merry talk, a few tears 
would fall sometimes upon her books and 
papers, as she packed them in her trunk. 

The two girls locked their doors and went 
up the winding staircase to Margaret’s “sanc- 
tum,” as they called it. It was a flight above 
them, and by so much the more valuable for 
sight-seeing. “ Point Lookout,” Louise called 
the dormer window that gave them so many 
varying pictures, and helped them to forget 
all the weary stair-climbing by which they 
had reached it. 

Long before this, when Margaret Carring- 
ton, a shy, proud girl, suffering from an 
acute attack of home-sickness during her first 
week at school, sat down in this same little 


GIRLISH FORECASTINGS. 


13 


room to have a “ good cry ” — which she had 
fought against for days — a bright, merrj^ face 
had peeped in at the door, and a queer 
little rippling voice said : “ May I come in ? ” 

“ Certainly,” rather curtly. 

“You see I was somewhat afraid to try to 
call, since you are so aristocratic. You wouldn’t 
stay down below, where there were plenty of 
vacant rooms, but must come up here among 
the clouds ! I don’t like it, but I think I 
like you . So I’ve ventured upon the ascent, 
both literal and figurative ” — with an odd little 
bow. 

“I think I don’t recall your name,” Margaret 
said, rather chillingly. 

“ I ? Oh ! I’m Louise Carroll. Not Miss , please 
remember. And you are Margaret Carrington. 
Now guess how I found it out ! It was 
awfully rude, I know, but I got your book 
this morning in chapel, and read the name 
while you were listening to Professor Lindsay’s 
lecture, and looking, oh, so sober ! ” 


14 


TO-DAYS AND YESTEEDAYS. 


Margaret smiled, quite forgetting that this 
strange girl had interrupted her crying. 

“I want to tell you as a friend, Margaret, 
not to begin in this way. It’s an obsolete 
custom, this listening to his lectures. They’re 
like the laws of the Medes and Persians, 
which haven’t varied any since the memory of 
the oldest inhabitant.” 

“Which, by the way, Tam not, ’’was the answer. 

“ I know. But it looks so unsophisticated 
to pay attention ; as if you expected to hear 
anything new. Prithee, don’t do it ! ” 

“I think I just — shall.” 

They both laughed. It was diamond cut 
diamond, evidently. 

Louise’s jesting covered, in reality, kind de- 
signs. She had noticed the pale, unquiet face, 
and knew by the sad eyes and tightly-closed 
lips that the new-comer was unhappy, and so 
sought her acquaintance in her own peculiar 
fashion, and helped to make her feel at home 
among them. 


GIRLISH FORECASTINGS. 


15 


Memories of those “first days” had been in 
Margaret’s mind to-night, and it was with a 
softened expression she turned towards the 
girls as they paused at the half-open door. 
Her voice was unwontedly gentle as she greeted 
them. 

“ Come in, dear ones, both. I’ve been wait- 
ing for you. Just now I had got to dreaming 
a little.” She laughed a low, pleasant laugh, 
as she spoke. 

Glancing at her, we see a tall, somewhat 
stately girl, womanly, and more mature in ap- 
pearance than the others. Just now one hand 
rested caressingly upon Bertie’s shoulder; the 
other, in a restless, unconscious fashion of her 
own, was toying with the tiny cross attached 
to her watch-chain. Scarcely pretty, certainly 
not handsome, was Margaret Carrington, yet 
possessed of a rarely attractive countenance. 

Looking into her earnest black eyes, and 
noticing the broad, intellectual forehead, one 
would hardly care that her face lacked a little 


16 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


in bloom and animation, or that the dignity 
of her manners verged upon stiffness. 

Oddly enough, this tall girl, who seemed like 
an elder sister to her youthful-looking compan- 
ions, was, in reality, the youngest of the trio. 
Bertie was just two weeks beyond her eight- 
eenth birthday, Louise but six weeks younger, 
while stately Margaret must wait the Christmas- 
tide before she could call herself eighteen. 

They nestled down together upon the big 
lounge, hands clasped, and faces leaning close, 
loving each other consciously more on this 
good-by evening than ever before. 

Louise spoke first, as usual : “ Barter for 
hard cash, ma belle ? Just a single penny for 
your thoughts.” 

“ Which of us ? ” from Bertie. 

“Not you. I should descend to fractional 
currency with you ; and then, I’m sure of yours 
if I wait a while, anyway.” 

Bertie tried to frown. 

“Don’t, darling. It’s all my nonsense, you 


GIRLISH FORECASTINGS. 


IT 


know. But Margaret is looking such unutter- 
able meanings straight at that unwieldy old 
trunk of hers! It’s too bad, for it never will 
appreciate them.” 

Margaret started, and laughed a little, half 
nervously. 

“ Unutterable ! That’s just it, Louise. I 
couldn’t put them into words if I would, and — ” 

“Wouldn’t if you could? Then you must. 
I always find the imperative mood works best 
.with you.” 

Margaret thought a moment, and then spoke 
abruptly : 

“You see, girls, we are done here at school. 
Never shall belong here again.” 

“Well, aren’t you glad of it?” 

“Yes, I’m glad, and sorry. I suppose there 
is no pleasure without its twinge of regret. 
Certainly I find none.” 

“Upon my word, Bertie, she is going to talk 
to us about 4 wasted opportunities ’ and ‘ mis- 
spent hours.’ I see it in her face.” 


18 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


“Indeed, no, girls. If there have been such, 
I am not going to bring them up to-night. I 
guess, after all, we have done as well as most 
girls. I’m not thinking about anything of that 
sort. But this pleasant, care-free life of ours, 
this drifting along together, ends to-morrow. I 
don’t know about the rest of you, but the 
thought holds a heartache for me .” 

A tear fell upon the hand that was holding 
Bertie’s. 

“I know it, Margaret, dear;” Louise spoke 
unsteadily. “But I always try not to think 
much of painful things. We have been very 
happy through these school years together, now 
we must be happy under different circumstances ; 
true to each other, and sure to meet occasionally, 
if we really wish to.” 

“ I like your cheerful philosophy, Louise. But 
somehow it just touches the surface with me 
to-night. The shadowy sadness and pain I feel 
are beyond it. 

Bertie spoke then, dreamily. 


GIRLISH FORECASTINGS. 


19 


“ It’s such a great hurrying world. We chanced 
to come here together ; now we .go so far 
asunder ! Perhaps never again in all our lives 
can we reunite the cords of interest and familiar 
friendship that we must sunder to-morrow.” She 
paused a moment. It was not quite easy to say 
what came next. “ If we never do, dear friends — 
if never on earth I should see your faces again, 
I should still thank God for the four happy years 
he has given me with you.” 

The words meant something, coming from 
Bertie. An only child, and motherless, she clung 
with strong tenderness to the friends who suited 
her sensitive, fastidious nature. Only a few — 
in a larger, broader sense she loved the world 
generally ; but very few reached the inner- 
most. 

Louise answered after a little silence. “It’s 
no use. I’ve tried and tried to avert the crisis, 
but ’tis sure to come. Now, if you have me 
here weeping like a languishing Niobe, you 
must blame yourselves. I didn’t want to cry.” 


20 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


She sobbed in good earnest for a moment. 
“It’s downright mean” — in smothered tones 
from beneath her handkerchief — ^ u when we 
wanted to have such a nice time to-night.” 

“ Well, we will yet. This just happened. 
Cheer up, and we’ll talk sensibly.* I’ll tell your 
fortunes as we used to years ago,” said Bertie. 

That roused Louise from her despondency. 

“Let me be sibyl. I’m just in the mood. 
And then Margaret may tell mine.” 

It was an old, gossipy game that had 
amused them often with its varying disclosures. 
Perhaps all three felt a little more interest in 
it than usual to-night, but, nevertheless, it was 
simply a diversion. 

Louise opened her book, let Margaret choose 
her lines, and from them improvised the mystic 
revelations. 

“ Going a journey, certainly,” with a grave 
air of knowledge that made them laugh mer- 
rily, looking at the newly-packed trunk. “The 
oracles are right thus far.” 


GIRLISH FORECASTINGS. 


21 


“ How could she have divined it ? ” whispered 
Bertie. 

“A long journey, I should judge, and toward 
the south. It will bring you much good luck. 
I foresee two or three adventures on the way. 
Pay particular heed to them, as they may 
change your destiny. For a year you will 
remain in the place whither you are now 
going. Then your path turns in another direc- 
tion. But I think you are to go alone . I 
don’t see any one beside you. It doesn’t seem 
a very pleasant way, and you keep putting 
your hands up before your eyes as if you 
couldn’t see clearly. By and by you get out 
into the light again. Now I see some one else. 
He’s tall, and dark, and handsome. He jonly 
looks at you, but — why! he goes right away 
again. You don’t walk quite as firmly for a 
little while. Then you come to a place where 
you find very many books, and your fingers 
seem always ink-stained. You get a few 
wrinkles, and crows’-feet even, I notice, and 


22 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


acquire a habit of stooping. But the world 
seems just to have found out the fact of your 
existence. And when you are making moan a 
little to yourself for your vanished youth, and 
your approaching thirtieth birthday, others 
will speak of Margaret Carrington, the gifted 
authoress. So goes the world, fair maiden ! ” 

“ Is that all ? And are your words gratui- 
tous? So I am to belong to the book-making 
craft. Louise, do go on and tell Bertie’s for- 
tune while you are so happily inspired.” 

“ It’s growing too dark to read anything. 
Let hers be a twilight fancy. I ' see this little 
white face, ever gentle, often smiling, in a 
stately home, lighting it up with a radiance it 
has sadly missed of late. I hear this sweet 
voice making music through the lofty rooms. 
I see a father’s care-worn face grow young 
again from watching her. I see all around her 
books, flowers, pictures — all the bright and 
pleasant things of life thronging her pathway; 
lovers and friends in plenty. But she wears 


GIRLISH FORECASTINGS. 


23 


the same kindly smile for all. At last, a long 
time from now I see her. I grieve to say 
she seems always in this last picture to wear 
a calico apron, cutting slices of bread and 
butter for charity children that surround her. 
Looking over her shoulder, I see what she 
called the 4 study door ’ standing ajar, and I 
hear a ragged urchin asking if 4 the minister 
is ter hum.’ From which circumstances I infer 
that all her gifts and graces have gone to 
adorn a country parsonage.” 

“ What a destiny !” Bertie clapped her hands 
gleefully. “ Quick, Maggie ! let’s retaliate. I 
see a cross, gouty old gentleman sitting in an 
arm-chair, and a timid woman who bears a faint 
resemblance to Louise Carrol attending to his 
wants. And I hear him mutter, as she leaves 
the room, 4 Married me for my money, did you ? 
Not a dime of it shall you have.’ That’s my 
picture.” 

Margaret smiled as she said : 44 And mine is 

scarcely better. The most important figure in 


24 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


the foreground is an enormous black-and-white 
cat, who seems to be playing with a ball of yarn 
on the carpet — floor I mean; it’s only washed 
and sanded — in the sunshine. There is a strong 
odor of green tea, and the prim spinster who 
sits sipping it, her knitting-work for the moment 
fallen into her lap, would tell you upon inquiry 
that her name is 4 Lou-i-sy Carrol. Age forty- 
five. I opened my eyes, and that's what I 
saw — eh, Louise ? ” 

“ I cry quits.” 

“We must all feel joyous at our prospects. 
Certainly every one gets her ambition grati- 
fied. Maggie gets fame, you, Louise, money — 
less than a dime — and I the privilege of giv- 
ing bread and butter to ragged children. 
What more could we ask? Say, girls, can’t 
we remember these fortunes till our class 
reunion ? That will be three years from to- 
morrow. We shall have lived out some of 
our destiny before then, and can compare facts 
and fancies.” 


GIRLISH FORECASTINGS. 


25 


“No fear but that Bertie will remember, 
especially if Allan Grantley studies for the 
ministry .” 

A shade of haughtiness crept into Bertie’s 
manner. Then she spoke, half lingeringly : 

“In three years, Margaret, I shall be 
twenty-one — changed a good deal, probably, 
from the girl of to-day.” 

“You’ll keep the same warm heart for us, 
though, won’t you, childie ? Don’t let that 
change.” 

“No, I know I can promise that. But now 
the thought of this reunion, and the meeting all 
our school friends again, even at so distant a 
date, seems of great importance to us. Will it 
then, I wonder? You heard cousin Mabel say 
that less than one-half of her class met at Orten- 
ville, and they only waited two years.” 

“ If any don’t want to come, we can do just 
as well without them. If any want to come, 
but cannot, we will love and remember just the 
same.” 


26 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


“ Yes,” Louise made answer directly. “ And 
one thing you have forgotten, Margaret. If 
any of us — you, or I, or Bertie here, just 
as likely as any of the others — should go away 
from it all before then, would the reunion be 
any the less tenderly complete because we looked 
down upon it from our new, brighter home ? ” 

“ I think not.” 

“ Nor I ; ” from both the listeners. 

Bertie followed out the thought. “ St. Paul 
speaks of love that cannot be lost. That is 
heavenly love. Now I think the stronger our 
human loves become, the nearer they come to 
this ideal. I wish we were so firmly friends as 
never to forget or lose the friendship.” 

“I think I see what you mean, Bertie,” said 
Margaret. “ 4 Life nor death.’ Darling, if life 
cannot separate us I am sure that death is 
neither so cruel nor so powerful as to do it. If 
you were in this world, and* I in another, I 
would love you still. Were you to go first, I 
should never fancy you had forgotten.” 


GIRLISH FORECASTINGS. 


27 


“ Oh ! I have faith enough for that. It’s the 
living true in our friendships that we must think 
of.” 

Thus their talk drifted into solemn realities. 
The underlying consciousness that it was the 
last in that dear old room, pervaded each heart. 

Often and often had those walls echoed to 
their joyous laughter and merry chat. To-night 
they would leave, as their last legacy to the 
place and its associations, flashes of their deep- 
est feelings. 

They had been walking only in pleasant paths. 
To neither of them had come, during all that 
school-time, any shaded blessings. The angels of 
sorrow had not stirred either heart to its depths ; 
the surface of their lives had been sun- 
lighted and breeze-rippled. But glimpses of 
what might be came to each of them in this 
tender twilight hour. 

They were to say good-by to some of the 
dearest friends life had given them, and this 
knowledge affected each powerfully. Instinct- 


28 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


ively, Bertie’s thoughts clothed themselves in 
Bible language. Just as naturally Margaret 
trusted more in death than life. Yet to neither 
of them had come the heaventy illumining 
which would make the uncertain way their 
feet were to walk, bright beyond doubt or fear- 
ing. 

Neither of the three whose lives during a 
few of the slow-coming years we are to follow, 
had sought and found the Saviour’s guiding, 
over-shadowing love. Such as they were, gen- 
erous in impulse, true-hearted, and loving, we 
find them. Their development toward good or 
evil, rests with the coming years. 

Quietly talking, the darkness had gathered 
around them unnoticed, until their faces were 
hidden from each other. Bertie’s tender voice 
sounded sweeter than ever to her listeners as 
she talked of her home — the home where no 
mother’s nor sister’s voice would brighten her 
days. It was but natural she should think of 
the difference between her home and the others’. 


GIRLISH FORECASTINGS. 


29 


“ But papa,” she said brightly, “ will be just 
happy to have even poor little me at home. 
And you girls, particularly Louise, must come 
to me by winter. Maggie will find it hard to 
get away from her friends, I suppose, but Lu, 
you’ll find me as pleasant discipline as a dis- 
trict school, I rather think.” 

“ That’s your way of putting it. You know 
whether I shall want to come or not.” 

Margaret commenced speaking, but was inter- . 
rupted by the clock’s striking ten. The coach 
was to leave early in the morning, and they 
knew it was time to be asieep. 

“ Not now,” as Louise urged her to go on. 

“ I’ll say it all to-morrow. Now good-night ! ” 
kissing each affectionately ; “ don’t talk any more, 
but go right to sleep, both of you.” 


CHAPTER II. 


HOMEWARD, 


30D-BY, Mattie, Ella, Susie ! Remember 



to write often, girls ! Charlie, I shall 
appreciate your sweet farewell present,” Louise 
said, laughingly, as she held up a package 
suspiciously fragrant of caramels and cocoa. 
“Don’t miss us too much, any of you.” 

“ Girls, here’s the coach,” came warningly, 
in Mrs. Howard’s pleasant tones from her 
station by the gate. 

She looked affectionately into the faces that 
turned to kiss her good-by — the young faces 
that had flashed their fresh brightness into 
her more quiet way during their happy school 
years. She would miss them from heart as 
well as home. 


30 


HOMEWAKD. 


31 


Margaret drew down her veil, and sprang 
hastily into the coach. She had taken her real 
farewell an hour before, in a long talk with 
Mrs. Howard, full of grateful thanks on the 
one hand, and tender counsels and good 
wishes on the other. Now, she had no fancy 
for a scene, and hastened to hide the tears 
which she knew would come. 

“Don’t forget us, quite, ‘mother’! But then, 
I know you will. Every bird sings in his 
season. We’ve had ours. Now you’ll fill up 
the house with new warblers.’ 

“ None that will sing more to my liking” — 
the good woman was looking hastily for her 
handkerchief. “You’ve been good girls, all of 
you. Remember the reunion, Bertie dear.” 
She stooped and kissed her again. “ There ! 
Mr. Rawley looks impatient. Good-by all ! ” 
The coach started, the driver smiling a 
little satirically, it may be, as he drove off. 
He .had witnessed a great many similar leave- 
takings, and imagined that he knew just 


32 TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 

about what they were worth. He thought of 
his passengers as so many students who liked 
school well enough, but home and gayety 
more. 

“It’ll wear off fast enough,” he muttered to 
himself, as he caught sight of the quick-com- 
ing tears. 

Wise man! Just as wise as we, any of us, 
are when we think to measure accurately another’s 
experience. 

We might see tears or smiles, as it should 
chance, but the deep feelings whence they 
sprang, the countless influences that must work 
henceforth and always in those young hearts, 
the fruits both of good and evil of the school- 
life just closed, are beyond our ken. As in a 
picture you can give to the beholder but a single 
gleam as the translation of some vision, but 
the thought which suggested it, the many brood- 
ing fancies that enriched it as you saw it in 
your tender dreamings, can never be transcribed 
upon the canvas. 


HOMEWARD. 


83 


In the changeful kaleidoscopic vision of our 
life, we can show to each other only fragmentary 
glimpses that come to the surface for their see- 
ing. The colors may seem dingy, the sketching 
oft at fault, but the eyes that saw the olden 
beauty of the lilies, the tender comprehending 
gaze that read the memorial meaning in the 
alabaster box from which Mary, unknowing, 
anointed Him unto his burial, will surely find, 
in all these pictures, not the dim, imperfect 
failures they seem, but what our best wishes, 
our truest prayers desired them to be. 

As Bertie and Louise looked from the carriage 
window down the hill toward the old Academy, 
there came to each a quick, flashing memory of 
the joys they had known there; a tender con- 
sciousness of what had been given them day 
after day in that quiet, oft-satirized, yet always 
loved Merrivale that they were leaving. 

The sun shone full upon the brick walls and 
the guardian trees that for so many years had 
rustled their leafy branches against the windows. 


34 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


How many summers had they kept their silent 
watch ! How many classes had come and gone, 
aye, how many bright faces of those who in 
years agone had spent their happy seasons here 
were silent underneath the valley sods ! 

Yet the old brick building and whispering 
trees remained the same. The road wound round 
toward the south. The hills shut out that last 
picture, and their way lay onward . The moment 
and its lesson had come and gone, but its mem- 
ory would remain with both. 

Margaret raised her veil, and se c emed pre- 
pared to talk. Gracie Rogers closed her book, 
and, yawning a little, said merrily: “Are you 
going to be mute all the way, good people? 
I, for one, want a little fun.” 

“Ditto,” from Harold Lawton. 

Louise drew her face into a queer little smile. 

“Waiting for me? I’m a sine qua wow when 
you want to be silly. Don’t deny it! Don’t 
I know you are all right among yourselves for 
good common-sense, but when it comes to 


HOMEWARD. 


35 


foolishness, why, there’s nobody like ‘ Louise.’ ” 

“ You said that, Miss Carrol,” in Allan 
Grantley’s laughing tones. “ We never should 
have ventured. But we won’t dispute your 
veracity.” 

“ Et ter Brute ! ” She sighed, in comic 
despair. 

Margaret spoke a little abruptly, for the first 
time since they started. 

“ Who was it that said the use of language 
was to conceal one’s thoughts? A wise man, 
or woman, I think. You’re keeping up this 
merry talk to disguise what you are really 
thinking.” 

“The way we go through the world, Miss 
Carrington,” answered young Grantley. “ It’s all 
well enough, if only there are no evil thoughts 
to conceal.” 

“ Perhaps so!” 

“ She doesn’t think that you’re right. Maggie 
believes that we should make mirrors of our 
words, and let everybody see what we are 


36 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


thinking. Mercy! I wouldn’t want to know 
what you are all thinking about — myself, for 
instance. Where would be the good ? ” 

“But what if we were mentally admiring 
you?” 

“Then I’d be vain. And a country school- 
mistress must keep humble. I don’t want to 
rise above my station.” 

“Then that is your destiny, Miss Louise?” 
Allan asked with quiet interest. 

“ Yes. Didn’t you know it ? Haven’t you 
noticed my steadily increasing dignity of manner 
ever since the last term began ? I’ve been 
fitting myself for my vocation.” 

“ Ah, yes ; I understand. If, from any defect 
of vision, I have failed to perceive it, please 
forgive me.” 

“ ‘ None so blind as those — ’ ” 

Just here Bertie laughed, looking out of the 
open window by which she sat. Nothing very 
remarkable about that you would think. Yet 
it attracted everybody’s attention to herself, 


HOMEWARD. 


37 


and caused Louise to leave her sentence unfin- 
ished. 

It was a spontaneous, merry little laugh, and 
the face she turned toward them, with an eager 
“ Oh, look ! ” seemed, with its comical smile 
fresh upon the tear-stains, like a rain-washed 
flower on which the sun was shining. 

“What is it?” questioned Gracie. 

“ A travelling menagerie, I guess,” laughing 
again. 

Right beside them in the road, keeping just 
abreast and ludicrously imitating the driver, 
was a little boy, magnificent in a mimic four- 
wheeled cart drawn by a remarkably meek- 
looking donkey. For passengers, he had a sleepy- 
appearing dog, three little kittens snugly cuddled 
up in an old cap in the corner, and a couple 
of hens who avenged themselves for the insult 
of being tied and putt in a basket, by clucking 
and squalling vociferously. 

The juvenile owner of this singular array 
was whistling with an air of sturdy independ- 


38 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


ence, and the scrutiny he received from the 
occupants of the rival stage-coach seemed in 
no degree to diminish his comfortable assur- 
ance. 

“ Do you suppose there’s any history ap- 
pended to that” questioned Louise. “ Let’s 
talk to him a little when we stop at the 
corner.” 

Five minutes later they reached the country 
tavern, not ambitious enough to claim for 
itself the title of hotel, where the driver 
changed horses and waited for the mail. Thus 
they had half an hour at their disposal. 

The young “ knight of the nondescripts,” 
as Louise denominated him, drove up in a 
leisurely manner a few moments after they had 
entered the house, and proceeded to give his 
patient donkey oats and water, with praise- 
worthy attention to his work and apparent 
unconsciousness of their being in sight. 

The girls stood looking at him through the 
open window as he busied himself in this fashion. 


HOMEWARD. 


39 


“ Allan ! ” Bertie spoke to him in an aside. 
“ Can’t you go out and 4 make friends ’ with 
him? The little fellow has a nice face. I’d 
like to know something about him.” 

A moment later Allan Grantley was strolling 
through the yard in the vicinity of the boy, 
but not near enough to seem intrusive. He 
was careful, even in small things, to conform 
to the rules of good-breeding and kindliness, 
and the quiet self-reliance of the boy’s man- 
ner made him hesitate about speaking to him 
as to most children. An opportunity presented 
itself, however. It appeared that something 
about the harness had given way, and the 
boy looked with some perplexity at the ill he 
didn’t quite know how to remedy. 

“ Can’t I help you ? ” 

Little Henry Davis — as he afterward gave 
his name — looked up at the young man 
eagerly. 

“I don’t quite see how I’m to get home 
with my load unless this can be fixed. And 


40 


TO-DAYS AND YESTEEDAYS. 


mother will worry so if I’m late,” he added 
in a disturbed tone, trying to fasten a refrac- 
tory buckle as he spoke. 

Allan soon assured himself that ten minutes’ 
work would set all right, and, despatching 
the little fellow to the house for the proper 
implements, fell to work most energetically. 

Henry’s eyes sparkled as he watched the 
young man deftly splicing the worn ends of 
leather, and tying them securely with a rope 
found in the basket with the ill-used hens. 

In thanking Allan, he spoke again of “moth- 
er’s being worried,” which led to a slight ex- 
planation of his home-life. And Allan often 
thought, in later days, of the sturdy courage 
of this little fellow, who, like him of old, 
“ was the only son of his mother, and she a 
widow.” 

It was a simple story enough. Poverty, 
sickness, and unpaid bills that must be met 
by the patient labor of this scarcely more 
than child. 


HOMEWARD. 


41 


A simple story, and not wholly a sad one, 
when one could comprehend the promised 
fruitage in the boy’s character, whose blossoms 
were so good to look upon, even now. 

When Allan repeated the brief history to 
Bertie, her only answer was a quiet smile and 
word of thanks. She felt sure of much that 
he did not tell her; of words of sympathy and 
encouragement that had sent the boy on his 
way with new faith in himself and hope for 
the future. So easily can helping hand and 
kindly word comfort and strengthen ! 

The remainder of their journey passed pleas- 
antly, but uneventfully, as the succeeding days 
also passed, until we see them again in their 
several homes. 


CHAPTER III. 


SCHOOL-TEACHING. 


OUISE CARROL, after a pleasant rest at 



home, began casting about in her mind 
concerning the coming winter. 

This young girl who wore such a smiling 
face through experiences that saddened others, 
had now from her friends the reputation of being 
a little flighty. 

Talented and industrious certainly. Every one 
conceded that. But many, who knew her super- 
ficially, felt that she didn’t take life enough in 
earnest. That was the impression she made upon 
strangers. Those who understood her best, the 
parents and sisters who were familiar with all 
her history, knew to the contrary. 

It had been no play with her, this four years 


42 


SCHOOL-TEACHING. 


43 


of school-life at Merrivale. At times it had 
seemed almost impossible — so little money came 
to them from her father’s business, and so numer- 
ous the home demands upon it — for her to 
remain there during the course. Especially had 
this been the case during the second year. A 
long, sympathizing letter from her mother had 
conveyed the unwelcome tidings that she might 
have to give up her school plans. 

It did not make our happy-hearted girl dis- 
couraged. It only set her thinking. She had a 
tolerably good musical education, and now hoped 
by means of this to complete her school-course. 

“I can’t do much,” she said half doubtfully 
to Bertie, “ but I think I am thorough in what 
I do know about music, and I could succeed, 
perhaps, with beginners. I mean to speak to 
Mr. Lawrence about it. He can help me to 
get scholars.” 

Bertie always had the utmost faith in Louise’s 
ability to do what she chose, and her hearty 
encouragement hastened the experiment. Mr. 


44 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


Lawrence gladly assisted in procuring scholars, 
and Louise soon found herself assured of suf- 
ficient means to complete that year, at least. 
Afterward, she was always ready to hear classes 
when needed, and in many ways added to her 
school fund. 

So, during these last years she had bravely 
and perse veringly helped herself, at what cost 
of pleasant leisure and oft-time needed rest 
school-girls can understand. 

Few of the school save her intimate friends 
comprehended the need of such effort, or 

realized how much care it gave her. And in 
spite of it, and her almost unfailingly class- 
rank, she always seemed the blithest of them 
all. 

Now that she was out of school, she found 
herself really eager to try, in her turn, to 

teach others. Naturally fond of books, and 
always interested in the studies and sports of 
children, the idea of taking charge of a 

school seemed, full of fascination. Just a 


SCHOOL-TEACHING. 


45 


small school, at first. By and by, when she 
was older, and could rely on experience as 
well as education, she will look for something 
higher ; but she didn’t care for a pretentious 
beginning. 

Her home was upon the eastern shore of 
Massachusetts. Bertie lived in the western 
part of the same State, and they often laughed 
about it, calling themselves boundary marks, 
and wishing they had both been located to 
the eastward ; for Bertie was enthusiastic 
about the ocean, and every mile that could 
bring her nearer it she would have counted a 
gain. 

“But Massachusetts is only a little State 
after all,” Louise wrote to Bertie in Septem- 
ber. “ I shall come to you, you may be sure, 
when I weary of my discipline.” 

She obtained a school without much diffi- 
culty. The knowledge of her fine education 
impressed the sturdy farmer who occupied the 
position of prudential committee in the dis- 


46 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


trict where she made applications. He fancied 
it something to be proud of that he had dis- 
cussed Miss Carrol’s good qualities, and 
secured her for his children. 

Whether she was more glad or sorry at her 
ready acceptance, the young girl could scarcely 
have told. She rather wanted to teach in the 
country, but it did seem a little more quiet 
than she had expected. 

She had hired a horse and driven out to 
Longley one pleasant day, through a perfect 
flush of autumnal brightness. The road was 
unfamiliar to her, and in all the beauty of 
the crimsoning trees and hazy sky, she had 
scarcely noticed how few the houses were, and 
what an air of utter quiet pervaded the 
place. 

But when she alighted at the door of Mr. 
Merton’s house, and glanced about her, she felt 
a queer sense of loneliness. She almost hesi- 
tated to go on with what she had under- 
taken. However, this was no time for timid 


SCHOOL-TEACHING. 


47 


shrinking, and she walked into the house 
with a quiet air of determination. 

The business completed, she took her home- 
ward way, a little oblivious of amber clouds 
and changeful tintings. She was thinking, with 
an odd mixture of feeling that sometimes 
brought a merry smile, and anon drew a 
momentary line across her forehead, of farmer 
Merton’s words: “We think it a very forrud 
school. Calkerlate there ain’t many round here 
that can beat it.” 

He had also said, in answer to her question 
about a boarding-place, that there wouldn’t be 
any particular one. “ Folks seem to be 
anxious to have the schoolmarm board round 
this term. And ’twill be the best way. It’ll 
save money, and lengthen out your school.” 

Louise didn’t venture any remonstrance ; 
but the idea of changing her abode so often 
among those strange, probably uncultivated 
people, was not very charming to her. 

“ That’s the only unpleasant thing about it, 


48 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


mother,” she said, at the close of a long talk 
that evening. “ I dread going into so many 
families.” 

“ But, Lu,” said her younger sister Bessie, 
“I expect you’ll be happy at least once a week; 
when it comes time for you to leave. You’ll 
keep hoping the next place will be a little 
better.” 

“ Yes, daughter. A week isn’t such a very 
long time. Only so many days. You can keep 
counting them less and less, and doubtless in 
many of the families you will be really happy.” 
She repressed a sigh. It did seem hard to her 
tender heart that her child must go away so 
soon to make her way by such a wearily slow 
path to self-support and independence. But she 
said not a word to discourage her. She knew 
full well that “good cheer is half the battle.” 

“ Margaret said : ‘ Here our ways separate,’ that 
day I came home,” Louise thought to herself 
in the quiet of her own room that night. “ Her 
words were prophetic. There must be a wide 


SCHOOL-TEACHING. 


49 


contrast between the life she will lead this winter 
and mine. Oh, it must be so good to be rich ! ” 
That she could say just to herself. She never 
hinted such thoughts to others. We all grumble 
a little sometimes to ourselves, when we would 
be tempted to deny it to others, even our best 
friends. 

November came. Thanksgiving Day came and 
went, and her school was to commence on the 
Monday following that time-honored festival. 
This was one of the traditional customs most 
strictly observed in the neighborhood. Had this 
holiday been appointed weeks later, they would 
have waited school with unwavering patience. 

On that eventful Monday morning Louise was 
carried to her first boarding-place at Captain 
Smith’s. They wanted to begin as grandly as 
possible, so she was first introduced into the 
leading family of the place. Her trunk was 
carried to the room which was to be hers during 
her brief sojourn among them, while she was 
detained below stairs a few moments for a formal 


50 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


presentation to Mrs. Smith and her two daughters, 
Estella and Matilda. 

Escaping from their voluble efforts to make 
her “ feel at home ” as quickly as possible, she 
sought her room to spend a few moments in 
collecting her wayward thoughts for the coming 
ordeal. A little before nine o’clock farmer 
Merton appeared to accompany her to her new 
scene of labor. She would willingly have dis- 
pensed with his services, but not venturing to 
say so, followed him half-reluctantly to the little 
brick schoolhouse, where she was to enjoy — or 
endure — her first experience in teaching. 

Some of her bright fancies were rather rudely 
dashed that morning. In the first place, the 
remarks with which Mr. Merton saw fit to 
open school were almost too much for her 
risibles. She wondered whether the scholars 
were accustomed to such harangues. Then, too, 
she was much surprised at the appearance of the 
school. She had expected to find a class of 
bright-faced children to be petted and loved, 


SCHOOL-TEACHING. 


51 


encouraged and praised. But at sight of the 
tall, womanly-looking girls, several of them evi- 
dently her seniors, and the “big boys” — were 
any of them voters ? — who were looking at her 
so curiously, her courage began to fail. Could 
she control and instruct such singularly forward 
and mature youth ? 

When the august member of the committee 
vanished, she knew it was time for her duties 
to commence, and that she mustn’t allow her- 
self to feel disheartened. So, keeping face and 
voice as calm as she could, in spite of a little 
nervous tremor, she went through with the pre- 
liminary exercises. Names were taken, books 
examined, and the work of classification pro- 
gressed as rapidly as, under the circumstances, 
it could. She studied all the new faces intently. 
Before noon she felt quite sure in her own mind 
who were to be her helpers and who her trials. 
The bright-eyed girl with curls so like Bertie’s, 
she should love her a little the best, she felt 
quite sure, and the sparkling little brunette 


52 


. TO-DAYS AND YESTEBDAYS. 


beside her, who already began to show signs 
of mischief, could be governed by steady kind- 
ness, unless her face-reading was at fault. 

One or two wee child-faces in the seats nearest 
her desk gave her a sudden wish to kiss their 
smiles and dimples, while others, stolid and 
unsmiling, impressed her with a half-defined 
feeling of dislike. The tall, fine-looking boy 
who answered all her inquiries so promptly and 
respectfully, would prove a good reliable friend 
among the scholars, ^she had no doubt. Another 
at the same desk, with heavy forehead, and 
bushy black hair, looked obstinate and sullen. 

She felt rather glad than otherwise that there 
was such a difference in age. It would be more 
interesting. As a whole, she was well satisfied 
with her first day at school, and it was with a 
light heart that she started on her homeward 
walk. 

Captain Smith’s house being at quite a distance 
from school, she had taken a lunch instead of 
going there at noon. Very hungry, a little 


SCHOOL-TEACHING. 


53 


excited, and more tired than she realized, she 
went down into the sitting-room, after haying 
remained in her own room long enough to get 
thoroughly chilly. 

She found the young ladies fully as cordial 
as was desirable ; particularly free in asking ques- 
tions and examining her hair and dress. 

At six o’clock they were summoned to the 
dining-room. Hungry as she had been and plen- 
tiful as was the food before her, Louise could 
not eat. 

Captain Smith seemed to feel it incumbent 
upon him to entertain the stranger, and such was 
his pompous assurance, that she was compelled 
to listen to, and answer his remarks, when they 
scarcely interested her enough to fix her atten- 
tion. Mrs. Smith seemed a kindly, pleasant 
woman, but she never made a decided impression 
upon people. Between her husband’s dignified 
self-importance, and her daughters’ ideas of fine 
ladyhood, she found it necessary to spend her 
time in deeds rather than words. 


54 TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 

She was the only one of the family toward 
whom Louise experienced a feeling of hearty 
liking and good will. 

Our young teacher commenced her week forti- 
fied by numerous excellent theories in regard 
to it. Many of them she sadly learned could 
not stand the test of every-day use. Sometimes 
prompt recitations and correct deportment cheered 
and encouraged her. Again she was tried almost 
beyond endurance by signs of rebellion or pos- 
itive disobedience. 

When, on Friday, she took her leave of ' the 
Smith family, it was with the utmost resigna- 
tion. They had been very kind to her. The 
girls evidently thought they had constituted 
themselves her especial friends for the winter, 
and they certainly had done so, if intimacy 
consists in limitless borrowing and constant 
imitation. But she had found little congenial- 
ity there. It was not an atmosphere in which 
she could breathe freely, and she was very 
glad to make a pew venture the next week, 


SCHOOL-TEACHING. 


55 


although Matilda very freely commiserated her 
upon the painful prospect. 

“ I don’t know what you will do, Louise,” — 
they had unhesitatingly adopted her Christian 
name — “at widow Hervey’s. They are very 
common people.” 

“ You are always sure of a welcome here, 
should you become discontented elsewhere,” 
added the captain. 

Louise thanked him very properly. 

“But ’twas fortunate he didn’t know what 
I was thinking at the same time,” she said to 
Bessie that night, after having reached home 
for her two days’ rest. 

She was making them all laugh at her 
comical recitals. She didn’t tell any of her 
real discouragements for her mother to worry 
about a whole week before she could be at 
home again. So it was only the funny things, 
the queer happenings, that came to the sur- 
face. 

“Well, papa, I’m at home again, you see!” 


56 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


as he came in from the store, a little tired, 
a little grave, she saw at a glance. 

But the clouds cleared, and he smiled gladly 
at sight of her. 

' “ It seems good to see you, my daughter. 
I wish” — he checked himself. “Are you con- 
tented ? ” 

“Absolutely, just at present.” Then more 
soberly, “ Yes, papa. I’m going to like it ever 
so much.” 

“ That’s right.” His face lightened percep- 
tibly. 

Louise felt repaid for any unselfish ignoring 
of trifling discomforts at sight of this relieved 
look. They had been anxious about her, but 
now their minds could be at rest. 

Another week and another home-coming. If 
we listen to this evening’s talk, we shall learn 
how she is prospering in her new work. We 
catch first a question from Bessie. 

“And you tried to encourage him, didn’t you?” 

“ Yes, and, Bessie, I found out by this experi- 


SCHOOL-TE ACHING. 


57 


ment that he felt perfectly satisfied with him- 
self without any encouragement of mine. I had 
felt like this : that this John Hicks whom every- 
body called such a bad boy, onty needed a little 
kindness and attention. He didn’t begin to 
come to school till Tuesday, and then only 
brouglit a reading-book. He did behave terribly. 
I didn’t know what to do with him, but I tried 
the kindness plan. None of the scholars seemed 
to pay any attention to him, and I imagined, 
you see, that he would be grateful for any notice 
from me. So at afternoon recess I began to 
talk to him. He didn’t make very satisfactory 
replies about his studies, and I was so determined 
to win him to sociability that I thought I’d 
question him concerning out-door sports, think- 
ing that might be more to his taste.” She paused, 
biting her lip. 

“And what then?” 

“ Why, it wasn’t much better. I said, ‘ Do you 
like skating? ’ He grinned at me rather vacantly ; 
as if he knew it was a hoax, but couldn’t quite 


58 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS, 


see how. I repeated my question. 4 You bet ! ’ 
was the answer, rather unexpected, I confess. 
But I persevered till I found that he would 
speak only when he chose.” 

“ It must have been provoking. If I’d been 
in your place — ” 

“You would have done very much as I did, 
little Miss Wisdom. It doesn’t do to get pro- 
voked too often in school. But I was disap- 
pointed. Don’t you think it was odd, papa ? ” 

“ Not at all. It’s only in books that you find 
these rough, uncouth fellows so speedily trans- 
formed into gentlemen. In real life, my child, 
we must be content with gradual processes. 
Perhaps you may yet see gratifying improve- 
ment in your unpromising John ; though just 
as possibly he may cause you trouble.” 

. “ O, Louise ! What about the pretty girl 
you liked so much last week ? Is she as 
nice as you expected?” 

“ Y-e-s, I like her. Perhaps there are others 
who will be as pleasant. Some faces that you 


SCHOOL-TEACHING. 


59 


scarcely notice at first, are the very ones that 
grow upon your liking afterward. I like 
them all, though, and some of them I am 
really learning to love. I have been as con- 
tented as possible at Mrs. Hervej’s. She is 
just like you, mother.” 

“And that means — everything good,” said 
Mr. Carrol, with a tender smile on his care- 
worn face. 

After a minute’s thought Louise said : 
“Teaching isn’t quite what I expected.” 

“Better, or worse?” 

“Both. In many ways it is full of pleasure, 
but the care and anxiety of it seem to follow 
me all the time. I must learn better about that.” 

“ Yes, my child. Your work is for school- 
hours. Beyond that time, you ought never 
to carry any of your perplexities. It will 
mar your happiness and never, I venture to 
assert, improve your school a whit.” 

The winter passed rapidly, with its alternate 
storms and sunshine. Within the low walls 


60 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


of the schoolroom the young teacher was 
receiving daily lessons. A new expression 
crept gradually into her face. This strange 
contact with human souls, this feeling that, 
for a time, she had the opportunity to touch 
them with an influence that might leave a 
lasting impress upon their characters, gave 
dignity to her work, even while it almost 
frightened her. 

It was not just what she had anticipated. 
Unexpected trials made some days dreary to 
experience, and gloomy to remember. But 
bright little gleams of affection, kindly words 
of appreciation, and marks of improvement, 
would often give her — what is, I think, one 
of the best pleasures in the world — a con- 
sciousness of having accomplished the good 
she aimed to do. 

Her mirthfulness would break out occasionally, 
much to her own discomfiture. But it helped 
to win a very warm place for her in the hearts 
of the children. 



Unexpected trials made some days dreary 



SCHOOL-TEACHING . 


61 


Many a long winter’s evening when she 
was domiciled among people who must needs 
remain strangers, because their tastes and 
interests were so foreign to her own, was 
made happy by writing to her well-remembered 
schoolmates. Many and many a welcome letter 
came to her from those who were already 
cherishing those schooldays as a precious past. 
Sometimes it would come into Louise’s mind — 
how real that time seemed to her! — and for 
a moment she would forget her new life, with 
its cares and pleasures, and be again by 
Bertie’s side, strolling along the shaded hill- 
side paths, or in Margaret’s room, listening to 
her earnest talk. 

But the vision was fleeting. That was all 
gone now. Other merry girls filled their 
places. The little room had new occupants. 

And this girl’s path was onward. Her most 
earnest gaze must be, not toward any picture 
of memory, no matter how dear or how 
tender, but toward the future, and the noble, 


62 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


honorable womanhood to which she might attain. 

At last the term closed. Am I writing for 
any one who can comprehend Louise T s feelings 
on that last night? Any girl who has striven 
just as earnestly and doubted her success just 
the same in that “ first school,” which is, in 
many respects, so different from what any later 
effort can be? For such, I venture to read 
briefly from her diary that evening’s jottings: 

“ Done at last ! Am I glad ? I guess so ; 
and yet the tears fall as I write it. Dear 
little dingy room, with your smoking stove- 
pipe, and rattling windows, your door that 
cannot latch, and ventilator that has admitted 
rain and snow upon my devoted head, I shall 
remember you tenderly ! 

“Sitting here alone to-night, now that the 
children have all gone — more quietly than 
their wont, and with good-bys a little tremu- 
lous — I remember only the best and happiest 
part of my winter. God bless them all ! — the 
dear ones of my charge. 


SCHOOL-TEACHING* 


63 


“ The play is ended. The curtain is drawn. 
I shall not return here, because I want more 
advanced work. Still, I have been kept busy 
enough. I have tried to draw all these young 
lives close to my own. 

“I think many of them have learned to love 
me. 

“There have been hard places. Sometimes 
unpleasant personal friction. But that went 
with the day. What remains in my memory 
to-night is a succession of kindly deeds and 
loving words; winter flowers that have blos- 
somed in our hearts, to wither, I trust, ’neath 
no cold blast of neglect or forgetfulness. I 
may not meet them again in the old familiar 
fashion, but, with a love that no after experience 
can awaken, just the same ; I shall remember 
these — m}^ first scholars. 

“What I have done to help them has been 
heartily, earnestly done. Wherein I have 
failed — and there ' lies the painful shadow of 
my winter ; the , fear that in many things I 


64 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


have failed — it has been from lack of knowl- 
edge, not lack of effort.” 

Many a day as Louise and Bessie sat at 
tlieir sewing, was enlivened by school-memories. 
Bessie never wearied of them. She grew 
familiar with them all. John Hicks, who 
become only just passable in spite of Louise’s 
persistent efforts, but who, nevertheless, drew 
his rough sleeve across his eyes when he said 
“good-by,” and muttered something about her 
being a good woman, if ever there was one ; 
the pretty girl with curls like Bertie’s, who 
was rather conscious of being pretty and had 
tried the young teacher’s patience sorely 
sometimes by her indolence and vanity ; the 
sullen-faced “ tall boy,” whom she had found 
to be a manly, self-reliant scholar ; the little 
children, one and all, who had made her heart 
very tender toward them — each came in for 
a share of remembrance. 

There were pleasant things to tell of every 
one. Sometimes Louise’s face would grow sad 


SCHOOL-TEACHING. 


65 


and her voice tremble as she spoke of Rich- 
ard Ferguson, the boy of graceful address and 
winning manners, who had been one of her 
earliest favorites. 

“ I was so much interested in him, Bessie ! 
I can’t seem to understand it yet, how he 
could have been so bad. He was always so 
kind to me all the weeks he came to school. 
And then to leave as he had to — ” 

The boy had been detected in stealing, and 
under circumstances that aggravated the offence. 
He had been sent to a reform school, and 
Louise not only missed him from her number, 
but had a vague sense of not quite under- 
standing about the matter. 

She had called to see him, but the boy seemed 
so utterly overcome by his trouble that she 
derived little satisfaction from his confused state- 
ments. 

Of his guilt there was, unfortunately, small 
doubt. The explanation, if explanation there 
were, his friends must wait for till that in- 


66 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


definite “ sometime ” when it might be given. 

Louise was only at home for a short time. Her 
year’s work was mapped out before her. Pro- 
fessor Lindsay had procured her an admirable 
position as lady teacher in an academy, and she 
could enjoy but a brief vacation. Bertie en- 
treated her almost piteously for the promised 
visit. 

“ I am far from well,” she wrote, “ and, Louise, 
I have depended so much upon your coming as 
soon as your school closed. Do change your 
plans and come here for the summer. I don’t 
know quite how to put it, you are such an inde- 
pendent darling. But I do want you, and you 
shall not lose anything by giving up this summer 
to my whims. Bo come ! ” 

Louise read this letter more than once. 

“If I only could go,” she said to herself one 
day as she sat ruffling her one silk dress with 
rather scant material. But I’ve nothing to wear. 
I know Bertie is dressy, now that she is in 
society. There ! ” — the rosy lips shut firmly — 


SCHOOL-TEACHING. 


67 


“I won’t go. I might as well begin to depend 
upon myself. I shouldn’t be happy there, doing 
nothing and taking Mr. Arnold’s money. I 
won’t do such a thing, even for her. Dear little 
Bertie ! I’m sorry she is sick ! ” 

So she answered the letter, and Bertie never 
guessed from the calm, loving words, the little 
ripple of indecision and the final resolve that 
had caused Louise a heartache. 


CHAPTER IV. 


TWO PICTURES. 

IT was a luxurious apartment, furnished with 
all appliances of ease and enjoyment. 
The heavy carpet, softening the sound of every 
footfall ; the sweeping curtains which, closely 
drawn to-night, shut out all sight of the moon- 
lighted snow which lay thick and white, 
although it was late in March ; the lounges, 
easy-chairs, pictures and statuary, all showed 
it to be the abode of wealth and refine- 
ment. 

The gas lighted up every part of the room, 
bringing out the rich, warm colors of the 
draperies, and the vivid hues of the canvas. 
Just such a cozy nook as a person of taste 

and culture might choose whither to bring his 
68 


TWO PICTURES. 


69 


books, and the best part of his thinking, for 
an evening hour. 

Books lay scattered about upon the tables.' 
One, open, bore conspicuously upon the title- 
page the name of Voltaire. All of them, 
should you review their contents, would prove 
of a similar nature. 

The room was utterly quiet, save for the 
ticking of the little French clock upon the 
mantel. Its occupant, sitting by the grate, his 
eyes shaded by his hand, had been for many 
minutes motionless. 

Eight o’clock ! The silvery chimes told the 
hour. The sheltering hand was withdrawn. 
The young man rose hastily, revealing to us 
the face and figure of Harold Lawton. Many 
months have passed since we last saw him, 
generous and good-humored, on that July day 
when he took leave of Merrivale. To-night 
his face hardly wore the same care-free look ; 
one almost of weariness replaced it. 

In the strong light, as he paced slowly up 


TO 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


and down the room, one could watch him 
closely. His is a pleasant, winning counte- 
nance, showing as yet few traces of the manly 
strength and firmness which later years may 
bring. Nor has it lost that look of unshrinking 
confidence and generous trust which lights up 
many a youthful brow, but too rarely outlasts 
the hard realities of the world. 

His eyes, blue and sunny, had never, per- 
haps, looked with keen scrutiny into the deep 
mysteries of life. His forehead, over which 
the curling hair fell carelessly, was broad and 
white ; not perplexed and drawn, as was Mar- 
garet’s, sometimes, by mighty thoughts, or 
marked with the faint lines which Allan’s in- 
tense living had already traced upon his. 

Indeed, at school Harold had been the 
wonder and admiration of them all. The 
ready adaptation to circumstances, which char- 
acterized him, the merry carelessness which 
contrasted so with the earnest natures of 
jnany of his chosen friends among his class- 


TWO PICTURES. 


71 


mates, had rendered him a general favorite. 

“I wish I had your disposition,” Margaret 
had said to him once during an autumn cam- 
paign of Latin poetry and senior essays. 
“You take everything so easily. Now I am too 
nervous to get any rest.” 

“You don’t know, Miss Margaret. We 
always admire what we are not,” had been 
his answer. “ How much better I should get 
on in the world had I some of your firm 
persistence ! ” 

“ Yes ! ” Louise was leaning upon Margaret’s 
arm, and joined in the conversation. “ That 
is just the truth, Harold. I looked over 
toward you in class this morning, and it 
came into my mind how hard it would be 
for those smiling lips of yours ever to say 
‘no!’” 

“ I am rather acquiescent, I admit.” 

“Well, if I were a phrenologist, I should 
tell you to cultivate your organ of firmness. 
Being only simple Louise Carrol, I can but 


72 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


counsel you to say 4 1 won’t ! ’ upon occasion, 
and say it sharply, too.” 

That little half-jesting talk had taken place 
long before. Perhaps, had he heeded his 
friend’s laughing advice, his face might have 
worn to-night a different expression. 

The susceptible, easily-influenced nature would 
take on such coloring as came nearest it. One 
skilled in reading character would have said 
now, instinctively, that the recent shades had 
been none too pure. 

Harold was an only son. An only child 
until the coming of a frail little sister, who 
now, at seven years of age, had taught them 
all new lessons of how human hearts can 
love — and fear . 

“Call her Lily,” Harold had said, when, in 
the season of summer bloom and freshness, 
he first saw the wee, white face of the little 
one whose life had counted only three months. 

So appropriate was the name, it was at 
once adopted. The years had in no way 


TWO PICTURES. 


73 


lessened the resemblance. The fairness of her 
complexion remained the same. Purity seemed 
written upon her brow. This fragile life was — 
perhaps the more because it seemed so loosely 
linked to earth — the strongest safeguard to 
the loving, yet careless, ofttimes erring brother. 

These two children of the family were sur- 
rounded with every indulgence. Lily kept 
her simple ways and child-like innocence. 
Harold, released from the restraints of school, 
drifted into gayety and extravagance. Nat- 
urally indolent, and lacking any strong incen- 
tive to work, he just glided along on the cur- 
rent of the days and basked in the sunshine 
as it fell upon him. 

He was to be educated for his father’s pro- 
fession — the law. But upon leaving school, 
he had asked so earnestly for a year’s rest 
before entering college, that his father had 
granted his request. 

The year had but just entered upon its 
last half, yet his parents were already looking 


74 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAY S. 


forward anxiously to the time when he should 
resume regular duties. 

There came a rap at the door, and two 
young men entered. They were evidently at 
home there, for as one took a match to light 
his cigar, the other ' approached Harold and 
put his hand carelessly upon his shoulder. 
He had a coarse face ; not such a one as a 
mother or sister would wish to see smiling 
familiarly upon one they prayed might be 
kept pure. 

“Well, old fellow, most ready? You see it 
lacks but ten minutes — ” 

“ I can’t go, Will. I’m sorry, but father — ” 
“ What ! The old governor forbidden it ? 
So you had to run and tell him. Well, Hal 
Lawton, you are slow ! ” 

Harold’s face flushed redly. Boys of nine- 
teen are rarely willing to endure the charge 
of cowardice, or — why is it ? — of obedience. 

“He hasn’t forbidden it; but he doesn’t 
think it’s a fit place to go, and for that 


TWO PICTURES. 


75 


matter, I don’t either.” He was interrupted 
by an angry oath. 

“ So that’s all it amounts to, waiting three 
nights, and coming over here for you now. 
It’s shameful of you ! ” 

His companion had not yet spoken. Now 
he turned and joined the talk nonchalantly, 
his cigar held between his fingers. 

“You’re consistent, Lawton, certainly. If 
smoking, and swearing, and gambling, to say 
nothing of occasional drinking, haven’t troubled 
your conscience, it does seem a little squeamish 
to be afraid of a pleasant ride to Clark’s 
hotel, and a little dance afterward.” 

The cool insolence of his manner was very 
hard to bear. At his indifferent, carelessly- 
spoken words, Harold winced as though they 
tortured him. But he had learned too much 
of the ways of the world to cry out in honest, 
passionate protest against the influences that 
had led him into sin, and now strove by taunts 
and ridicule to push him still lower. 


76 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


“ Well, if you really can’t go, stay at Lome. 
I never want boys to disobey their fathers.” 

The patronizing tone had its effect. 

“ I tell you I am not under orders. Of 
course, I can go if I choose. But it will be 
a miserable affair, and I don’t think I want 
to go.” 

Will’s manner, at a glance from his com- 
panion, changed. 

“ Well, Hal, if we don’t like we can leave. 
To tell the truth, I’ve something of a head- 
ache to-night myself, and don’t want to make 
a late evening anywhere. Come, go with us 
for two hours ! ” 

Harold hesitated. 

“Say yes, please,” from Edward Stanton, the 
eldest of the trio. 

“Well, yes it is, then. But seriously, boys, 
I don’t feel right about going. However, I 
shall be here again in two hours.” 

He didn’t see the significant smile upon 
Edward’s face, or notice the impatient shrug 


TWO PICTURES. 


77 


of Will’s shoulders. Had he done so, it might 
have been different, even then. 

Harold put on coat, hat and gloves hastily, 
stopped a moment to take his cigar-case from 
a locked drawer of his book-case, and was 
ready to follow them. One glance around the 
room, then he turned off the gas, and the 
picture was darkened, darkened. 

Look, now, into another room, upon this 
same evening, far up among the New Hamp- 
shire hills ; so far that when the morning 
mists had cleared, one could* see. from the 
eastern window the hoary heads of the inoun- 
tain-monarchs who maintain their changeless 
thrones. 

It was a low-ceiled chamber, close under the 
sloping roof ; not quite high enough to be always 
convenient for the curly head which yet carried 
itself most proudly there, as with a royal con- 
sciousness of possession. In summer the climb- 
ing vines that shaded the front of the old brown 


I 

' 

78 TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 

V 

m 

farm-house made a delicate net-work for the 
windows. Now, however, in default of summer 
greenness, the bare twigs rustled shiveringly 
against the panes. 

It was not a very beautiful home ; barren of 
ornament and luxury, and situated upon the 
rugged hillside where the sun glared oppres- 
sively t in summer, and the wintry winds seemed 
to spend their bitterest force. Few neighboring 
houses were in sight: not one which betrayed 
much save poverty. 

To such a quiet, lonely home had Allan 
Grantley come after his life at Merrivale, and 
taken up, with brave cheerfulness, the duties of 
his way. 

There was no prospect of college for him, 
unless he chose the weary years of arduous toil, 
unavoidable in his case, and ran the risk of 
shattered nerves and ruined health, even if he 
succeeded. 

But he craved no rest after his school course. 
The words of little Henry Davis had come to 


TWO PICTURES. 


79 


him with peculiar force. “It’s only mother and 
I ” was applicable also to his circumstances. 
Perhaps other things in the boy’s simple story 
had touched him nearly. Were I to tell you 
just his actual experience during the eight years 
prior to this time, you would scarcely credit it. 
Hard work to live, but he had lived, and pressed 
on in the way he had chosen. 

Just now he was waiting — doing the work 
upon the farm which he had heretofore entrusted 
to strangers. He had anxious hours, and, as a 
truthful historian, I am compelled to admit there 
were also some impatient ones. 

But as a general thing he was content, find- 
ing, even in that outwardly meagre life, mean- 
ings which enriched his deepest experiences, and 
strengthened every fibre of his being. 

Perhaps he had never fully realized how his 
mother must have missed him till he measured 
it by her joy in having him once more at 
home. This was the compensation for what he 
had lost. Very naturally, he missed the culture 


80 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


and companionship of the past four years. 

The hard-working farmers who had spent 
their lives in forcing sustenance from those 
rocky hill-sides, had little time for attending to 
finer wants. 

There must be hunger somewhere for us 
all. If they chose to starve certain faculties 
of whose existence they were well-nigh uncon- 
scious, who shall blame them ? 

Such rugged, stalwart lives, missing what 
they may of delicate finish, are yet not sel- 
dom animated by high principles that vivify 
and ennoble them. 

Already Allan, looking below the surface, 
had read these counter-meanings. Already he 
had determined that through no fault of his 
should the children in the neighborhood, unin- 
structed save during a brief, poorly-cared-for 
school-term, be allowed to remain in ignorance 
of the great world outside their own humble 
sphere, nor of truths that should make them 
realize that all this present life, whatever its 


TWO PICTURES. 


81 


successes or its failures, is but a “ getting 
ready” for the real living whither this tends. 

His mother, ready always for every good 
work and word, listened patiently to all his 
earnest talks concerning the young people of 
the vicinity. After one of these evening con- 
versations which had drifted into that thought- 
pregnant silence the world’s workers know so 
well, she had said : 

“ Your wider opportunities, my son, increase 
your responsibilities. There is so much greater 
danger of our doing too little than too much 
for other people! Your father” — her eyes had 
a dreamy, absent look, and she seemed to 
half-forget the present in some memory which 
her words evoked — “used to have a great 
many plans for doing good here. I would like 
that his son should fulfil them.” 

Few considerations could have had more 
weight with that son. It had always seemed 
to him like an unfinished poem, the life of 
that young father who, almost a score of years 


82 


TO-DAYS AND YESTEKDAYS. 


before, had been called away from the wife 
that loved him and the little child that was 
just learning to lisp his name. 

His child, grown now almost to manhood, 
could have no dearer or more living ambition 
than to make real the unfinished work of that 
life. 

During the winter he had taught an even- 
ing class with most gratifying success. In 
addition to that, he had, within the last 
month, started a Sunday-school for those who 
seldom attended divine service, and on Friday 
evenings the members of it were invited to 
come to him for such instruction and help as 
they needed. * 

He had on this evening spent an hour 
with a dozen ' or more of his scholars who 
had come to his house in the early twilight. 
At eight o’clock he had bid them “ good- 
night,” standing in the door a moment, with 
kindly last words for them all, and then 
re-entered the room alone. His mother was 


TWO PICTUEES. 


83 


absent for the night, detained by the sick- 
ness of a friend. 

The young man sat down by the window, 
wiping his damp forehead wearily. 

“ But it pays ! ” .he ejaculated presently, as 
if in answer to some unexpressed doubt in 
his mind. “ It is surely worth all the trouble.” 

Sitting there alone he peopled the room — 
it was a queer fancy of his — with those he 
would have liked best to see. For the time, 
he could make it seem as if he were in the 
midst of a merry company. 

A little start, and the dream faded. He 
was alone in the plain little room. The wood- 
fire in the open stove had burned to ashes ; 
the air was chilly. 

He sighed a little bitterly. 

“What will it lead to, I wonder. If I were 
sure of success — but never mind! there’s no 
good in questioning. What was that I read 
to-day in Hy mns of the Ages ? c He surely 
wins who sides with God.’ That’s a thought 


84 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


full of comfort. I *guess I am sure of success, 
if I deserve it. Perhaps not just what I would 
choose, but I must remember that it will be 
the best, even then.” 

From the beautiful words of the hymn his 
thoughts went on to the best cheer, to the 
fountain whence he oftenest drew deep draughts 
of comfort. “Nay, in all these things we are 
more than conquerors through Him that loved 
us r 

He uttered the words softly, reverently, his 
eyes looking into the boundless distance through 
the moonlight, and his heart permeated with a 
sense of absolute rest and strength. The earnest 
face, white and weary now ; the noble head, held 
erect in such free unconsciousness ; the lips, just 
uttering the great Teacher's w^ords ; the eyes, 
fathomless with thoughts that take hold on 
eternity; the dim rays of the little lamp upon 
the table, scarce obscuring the silver light that 
falls upon him, make up our second picture. 

And these two, looking now in such opposite 


TWO PICTURES. 


85 


directions, have been as brothers during the 
last happy years ! Receiving the same teachings, 
living outwardly the same life. 

Why was it that the one had steadily grown 
in firmness of principle and sweetness of char- 
acter, while the other had formed habits that 
degraded him, and friendships that proved a 
snare ? God knows. What do not those words 
hold ! They seem the final rest from troublous 
questions. We say them sometimes almost 
thoughtlessly, forgetting, in our ignorance, that 
He always knows. But He never forgets ; and so 
the lives go on, some on treacherous quicksands, 
some upon dancing, sunlit waves, and others, 
aye! many, through depths that no light of 
our earthly giving can ever reach. And when 
it all perplexes us, and we strive with our weak 
human wisdom to read the riddles, what can 
come with such a balm of healing to our hearts 
as these two words — - God knows ! 

I have shown you these two pictures as they 
were. But He could efface all unsightly stains, 


86 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


and add colors of heavenly beauty. He could 
wipe them out utterly. And He can wait , as 
with a love we never on earth can comprehend 
He does wait, for the artists themselves to fill 
up the outlines, and perfect, in his good time, 
the picture. 


CHAPTER V. 


THE QUIET CHAMBER. 

T AM far from well,” Bertie had written to 
A Louise in the early spring* As the weeks 
passed, and the days grew longer and brighter, 
the earth putting on its garments of youthful 
life, the young girl had to realize that all this 
glad freedom of air and flowers and bird-song 
failed to impart to her the bounding vitality 
which had seemed a part of her nature. 

“ I am so tired, papa ! ” was her frequent 
weary plaint when he asked for evening music 
or reading. “ To-morrow I guess I shall be 
better, but I’ve no strength to-night.” 

And so it came about that when May was just 
giving place to blossoming June, the weariness 
grew into actual disease, and the cheeks that had 
87 


88 TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 

been so strangely pale during the springtime 
became flushed with fever. 

“ Where is Bertie to-night ? ” inquired Mr. 
Arnold, glancing uneasily at the lounge where 
for many days he had found her lying, her eyes 
languid, but the smile with which she always 
greeted him bright enough to veil the real 
change in her face. 

“ In her room,” was the answer from Mrs. 
Matthews, the housekeeper. She was a relative 
of Bertie’s mother’s and a valued friend in the 
family. 

“ Not any worse ? ” anxiously. 

“ I fear so. It really seems to me that the 
child has a settled fever. I have been trying 
to prevail upon her to let me call a physician, 
but she is very much opposed to it. I hope you 
can persuade her.” 

Mr. Arnold hastened up-stairs to his daughter’s 
room. 

“My poor child!” as he stooped to kiss 


her. 


THE QUIET CHAMBER. 


89 


She only gave a weary smile in answer. 

“ Why, what hot little hands ! Have you 
been so sick all the afternoon ? ” 

“ Oh, no ! And this will pass off in a few 
hours. I was almost as feverish last night.” 

“ This will never do, darling. I must have 
Dr. Andrews in directly; and I guess he will 
scold me for waiting so long.” 

“ Oh, papa — ! ” 

“ But, my daughter, I want you to get well 
and strong. You really need a doctor’s care 
for a time. I have been thinking of it before 
to-night.” 

“Just as you think, only it seems so much 
like being actually sick; and perhaps I could 
be down-stairs by to-morrow.” 

“ Hardly, I’m afraid. I’ll send Mrs. Mat- 
thews to sit with you till I come back, my 
dear.” 

Going down to the dining-room, he spoke to 
her, and was hastening .from the house when 
she called to him. 


90 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


“ Supper is waiting. Won’t you take a cup 
of tea before you go ? ” 

He glanced at his watch. It was a half-hour 
past the usual time. 

“I guess not. Don’t wait any longer, Mrs. 
Matthews. I don’t feel at all hungry to-night. 
Somehow, these first warm days take away all 
desire for food.” 

The outer door closed quickly. 

Ah ! the warm days had little to do with 
it, the kind-hearted woman knew. That cham- 
ber, whence he had come, held all that the 
proud man really loved on earth; the only 
child who had ever called him father ; the 
gentle image of her who, for one brief year, 
on life’s dewy morning, had called him hus- 
band. 

“I don’t know,” she soliloquized, “what 
would become of him if anything happened to 
Bertie. He just makes an idol of the child. 
It’s wrong, I know, but— -bless her sweet 
face ! — I can’t much blame him.” 


THE QUIET CHAMBEB. 


91 


Re-entering Bertie’s chamber, she chatted as 
cheerfully as she could to keep up the courage 
that was so evidently waning. 

The young girl was unused to sickness, and 
it seemed such a dismal thing to her, this 
helpless waiting for the physician’s grave 
verdict. 

Mr. Arnold soon returned, bringing with him 
Dr. Andrews, a benign, fatherly-looking gentle- 
man, his face a little wrinkled, but fresh with 
something better than youth; and his kindly 
voice one to inspire confidence in a moment. 
He was no stranger to Bertie, but, till now, 
his calls had been simply friendly. Even his 
familiar face seemed strange in the feverish 
haze that surrounded her. 

“Well, little girl, how is this? Sick, are 
you, or only a little nervous ? ” 

“Both, I am afraid. Sadly nervous, at all 
events.” 

He took her hand as she answered, his face 
growing suddenly grave. 


92 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


“ Raise the curtain, please, Mrs. Matthews. 
I want to see my patient.” 

With his finger still upon her wrist, and his 
keen, professional gaze directed toward her 
face, the doctor continued talking, questioning 
a little, watching more. At last he turned to 
the table to prepare some medicine. 

“What is it, Dr. Andrews? Not a fever?” 
from Mr. Arnold. 

“Indeed, I am afraid it is. It is a very 
unhealthy season, and it seems your little girl 
must suffer the eVil in common with others.” 

“ But don’t feel discouraged, Bertie,” with 
a quick look toward the bed. “ We’ll take 
wonderful care of you. With such a doctor 
and such a nurse, you won’t have a chance to 
feel neglected.” 

A few hot tears stole from beneath Bertie’s 
closed lids. None but the father saw them, 
who, bending over her with a whispered word 
of comfort, soon brought back her wonted 
smile. 


THE QUIET CHAMBER. 


93 


“ Now,” said Dr. Andrews, as he finished 
his directions about the medicines, and resumed 
his place in the arm-chair, “what about taking 
care of our patient ? It is worth everything 
for one experienced person to have entire 
charge in the sick-room. Can you give up 
your time for that, Mrs. Matthews, or shall 
I find some one ? ” 

The lady hesitated, looking at Mr. Arnold. 
His first thought was, that he could more 
easily find some one for duty here, than to 
oversee all the domestic machinery below 
stairs. But before he made any answer, a 
quick exclamation from Bertie decided it. 

“ Oh ! I can’t have’ any one but Mrs. Mat- 
thews. Papa, she must stay with me.” 

“ Certainly, my darling, if you like it 
best.” 

Her wish was his. 

Presently, with many kindly wishes, and the 
promise of an early morning visit, Dr. 
Andrews took his leave, Mr. Arnold following 


94 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


him down-stairs, anxious to learn fully his 
opinion of Bertie’s sickness. 

A moment later, Mrs. Matthews was called 
from the room to give directions to Katie, a 
new girl, who, just then, was trying 
her patience sorely, and Bertie was left 
alone. 

Alone, and in just that weird twilight hour 
when the lengthening shadows could shape 
themselves to her mood, and add a new 

tinge of dreariness to the cloud which had 
settled upon her spirits. The tears, unfor- 
bidden now, fell fast. Her head ached with a 
hard, throbbing pain. She was ill, and, 
with a shuddering sense of dread, realized 
she might become — how much worse? 

Her fevered imagination pictured all the 

possibilities of her sickness. Perhaps she 

might even go down to death, and then — 

She heard the chapel bell giving the call 
to evening service. She wished she could go. 
But it seemed so far away ! How quickly 


THE QUIET CHAMBER. 


95 


she was growing drowsy! She put her hand 
to her forehead dreamily. 

“ I wish papa would come ! I didn’t want 
them to leave me,” she murmured ; but to her 
dulled senses the consciousness of alarm grew 
strangely indistinct. She was sick ; she might 
die ; and God was so strange to her ! She didn’t 
want to go away from them all into an unknown 
blank. But even with the thought, her eyelids 
drooped. With a strange sense of dizziness, of 
falling through immeasurable space, of being 
lost, forgotten somehow, she sunk into an uneasy 
slumber. 

A little later her father found her muttering 
disconnected words in a troubled dream. And 
this was but the beginning of the hard battle 
between life and death. Day by day the fever 
raged more fiercely. Mrs. Matthews, watching 
over her with almost motherly solicitude, grew 
less and less hopeful. 

Her father’s face was white with the dread 
he could not express ; and Dr. Andrews, who 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


came in every few hours, sometimes forgot to 
wear the encouraging smile they so anxiously 
watched for, in his fear that the young life was 
going down into the shadows. 

And so, waiting the tardy crisis, they cared 
for her and prayed. Sometimes there were hours 
of calm and consciousness, when the blue eyes 
would open with something like a natural ex- 
pression. One glance of recognition would 
repay them for hours of anxious watching. But 
at last these ceased. Her disease, typhoid fever, 
assumed its most alarming form, and the shaded 
chamber rung with her wild laughter and inco- 
herent words. 

The father’s heart almost stood still, thinking 
of what might come when that strange mirth 
grew quiet. His darling’s voice, sweet and 
gentle ever as the chime of silver bells, how 
was it changed ! now harsh and discordant, 
sharpened by the fever that seemed burning 
her life away. 

How strange it seemed that all around him 


THE QUIET CHAMBER. 


9T 


life could be going on as ever ! For himself, all 
that meant aught of joy, of hope, of pleasant 
ambitious dreaming — his life , so far as anything 
earthly could be that — was within that dark- 
ened room where the June sunshine vainly 
strove for admittance, and the perfumed air failed 
to rouse the deadened senses of the sufferer. 

Men met him on the street, with faces 
that grew sober with sympathy, and voices 
that softened in their inquiries for his child ; 
then went on to their business or their 
pleasure, and straightway took into their 
minds some new interest, and forgot their 
pitying thought of her till another chance 
sight of the father’s face recalled it. 

He realized this fully and bitterly. What 
did it matter to them ? They might well 
smile, for their homes were not gloomy with 
sorrow ; their children were out in all the 
beautiful life of the summer. Who of them 
all would pause to think that for him all the 
sunshine was fading ? 


98 


TO-DAYS AND YESTEEDAYS. 


And the heavens above him, the blue sky 
unflecked with clouds, the air resonant with 
bird carols — oh, it was hard! Nowhere could 
he find the help, the comprehension he needed. 
He tried to pray, but the words seemed to 
choke him. He cried out passionately agaiitst 
himself, remembering how many times he had 
uttered the holy words, “Thy will be done,” 
in solemn communion with his Master. Now, 
that blessed will might be — could it be so 
cruel? To speak the words then would be a 
mockery. He could only ask piteously for 
mercy. 

The physician, a life-long friend as well, 
watched him anxiously. He remembered a 
time, long, long before, when he had been 
summoned to that house to help resistance 
against disease. He remembered with a quick 
thrill of sadness, intensified by looking at the 
face so like hers upon the pillow, how futile 
had been all his efforts. And thinking of 
what came after, of the weary months when 


THE QUIET CHAMBER. 


99 


no voice of friend or kindred could rouse 
the bereaved husband from the lethargy of 
sorrow, he trembled to think of the result, 
should this last treasure be taken. So with 
cheering words he strove to keep alive the 
fires of hope. At last, when he dared no 
longer to give encouragement, he ventured to 
speak of Him who loved them all ; who was 
as surely in that chamber, and as tenderly 
mindful of his child now as ever in her life’s 
sunniest hours. 

The father listened uncomprehendingly. 

Mrs. Matthews kept in her own heart — she 
could not tell Mr. Arnold — of the rare hours 
when the young girl woke to consciousness; 
of the momentary anguish which filled her 
face, and the piteous entreaty of “ Don’t 
let me die ! ” that tortured her listening 
ears. 

It was very hard. The mind shattered by 
sickness could not attend to her answering words. 
The weary cry in Bertie’s own voice was followed 


100 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


always by strange, unconscious moanings and 
sick fancies. 

It was Tuesday morning. “ Just a week from 
to-day she will be twenty-one,” the father thought, 
as he paced slowly back and forth. 

Will be ! Would have been, perhaps. She 
may go to where there are no birthdays of our 
human reckoning. He stopped before the win- 
dow. What a bright sunny morning ! 

A climbing rose reached a few stray blossoms 
in at the open window against her piano. The 
tender, graceful flowers ! It almost seemed as 
if the vine that had had her loving care longed 
to give this little mute reminder of its gentle 
pity. Some one had gathered flowers for the 
vases. The kindly thought failed of its intent. 
The sight made him almost harsh. Why should 
any one else take her place, even in a trifling 
matter like this ! 

Thus the days wore wearily on. Hope and 
fear alternated within the father’s breast. At 
last Dr. Andrews stopped at the dining-room 


THE QUIET CHAMBER. 


101 


door one morning, and spoke to him in a hushed 
voice. 

To-night, then, he would know. Know whether 
this very life of his life was to be spared to him, 
or whether she was to leave him as her gentle 
mother had done. 

There would be nothing left ! What a day 
that was ! He walked his office floor as the 
hours went slowly by, and when, at last, he 
sought Bertie’s room, the pallor of his face almost 
frightened Mrs. Matthews. 

Bertie had lain in a stupor through the day, 
her thin, blue-veined hands lying parched and 
hot upon the counterpane, the fingers feebly 
moving from time to time. This movement, 
and the light, scarcely perceptible breathing, were 
the only signs of life. 

At nine o’clock the doctor came in, prepared 
to spend the night with them. 

“ She will lie much like this till about mid- 
night; then there will be a change,” he said, in 
answer to some query of Mrs. Matthews. 


102 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


Through the weary hours they waited. 
Mrs. Matthews moistened Bertie’s hot lips, or 
chafed her slender hands. It seemed so little 
aid to give in the decisive battle that was 
being fought. 

Mr. Arnold stood leaning against the win- 
dow, looking out into the night, trying to 
brace his heart to bear what he felt was 
coming. 

“ O, Mary, Mary ! I would give her up to 
thee, but thou canst not need her as I do.” 
Thus his stricken heart moaned in its despair. 

So busy was he with his thoughts, which 
yet brought no comfort, that he had not no- 
ticed a slight movement around the bed till 
a faintly-murmured “ Father ! ” caught his ear. 

Aye! he may well thank God, as, turning, 
he meets his darling’s eyes bright with recog- 
nition, though the momentary strength is gone, 
and she is unable to speak again. 

The old doctor’s face worked strangely. 

“Now, good friend, I want you to go to 


THE QUIET CHAMBER. 


103 


bed, and not undo all my work in this style,” 
he grumbled, as Mr. Arnold knelt beside the 
bed, sobbing like a child. But his face was 
very gentle as he added: “Please God, she’ll 
pull through now ! ” 

In his library, Mr. Arnold spent the remain- 
ing hours of the night in communion with his 
God. His joy and gratitude were too intense 
for words, but he promised a more entire con- 
secration to the Master who had dealt so 
lovingly with him. 

Bertie’s gain was very slow, but it seemed 
sufficient joy to her friends to see her faint, 
sweet smile, and realize that she was here , 
for them to love and care for, instead of there, 
beyond their utmost reach. 


CHAPTER VI. 


LONGINGS, 


ETTIE CARRINGTON drummed list- 



^ lessly on the piano, ever and anon 
casting anxious glances toward a figure at the 
window. At last she could bear it no longer. 

“ Margaret Carrington ! I know you are 
going to fail me now, crying at that rate, and 
making your face look like a lobster ! Do 
you know what you are doing ? ” 

The elder sister wiped away her tears and 
tried to smile. It would have been far 
pleasanter to spend the evening in writing to 
Bertie the loving thoughts which filled her 
heart ; but to her fine sense of honor, the 
promise was sacred. So she bathed her face, 
and smoothed back the dark hair, which, 


LONGINGS. 


105 


much to Nettie’s regret, she could rarely be 
induced to crimp. 

“ I must stay till I see your hat is fairly 
on, or you’ll go off into another paroxysm,” 
grumbled the little pleader, a good deal mol- 
lified, however, by the evident haste Margaret 
was making in her preparations. 

Ready at last, they started, in company 
with several friends, for the hall, and found 
themselves in excellent season. 

The concert was really worth attending; the 
audience select and appreciative, the music 
varying in character from songs rendered in 
fine style by a bewitching little balladist, to 
grand symphonies, and the glorious anthem at 
the close. 

Margaret, borne along on the waves of 
sound, felt the thrill of harmony through 
every nerve ; read plaintiff meanings in minor 
strains that trembled through the hushes, and, 
while the merry songs were encored , and her 
friends on all sides were smiling their approval, 


106 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


she dreamed of the one who was lying, even 
at that moment, in the weary languor of 
disease. 

Nettie, meantime, was listening for the most 
part, making, at the same time, little run- 
ning commentaries in her own mind upon 
the dresses and hats that pleased her fancy ; 
and before the evening was over, and she 
met Margaret’s eyes as they turned to go out, 
she had decided upon a spray of French 
flowers to adorn her dainty lace hat, and 
arrived at the momentous conclusion that fawn 
kids were unquestionably “ the thing,” and that 
she must get some directly. 

The letter was written the next day ; and 
before she said good-by, Margaret devoted a 
page to a certain very urgent request she had 
to make. 

“ When you get stronger, Bertie, you must 
come here for a few weeks ; months would 
please me better. I want you so much ! and I 
think the change might be beneficial to you. 


LONGINGS. 


10T 


I can’t say as many coaxing things as 
Louise does, but you know I shouldn’t ask you 
unless I really meant it, don’t you, dear? I 
shall be very much pained and disappointed if 
you refuse. One thing more : if you will come 
and make me a long visit, I’ll return it with 
interest. Indeed, I’ll go home with you. What 
more can I say to prove my sincerity I Because, 
as you know, I never enjoy promiscuous visiting.” 
Such was her answer to Bertie’s pleading note. 

“Mother,” she said suddenly that afternoon, 
“do they allow girls under twenty years old in 
the hospitals ? ” 

“ As patients ? Yes, sometimes,” answered 
Mrs. Carrington, affecting not to understand her 
meaning. 

“No, that isn’t what I mean. I was wonder- 
ing whether even a young girl, if she were 
strong and healthy, couldn’t do a great deal 
of good.” 

“ Many young girls think so, evidently,” 
was the reply. “ My own opinion is that 


108 TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 

zeal can’t quite be substituted for knowledge. 
It pains me to think of suffering uncared-for, 
but too many inexperienced nurses but increase 
the evil.” 

Margaret sighed. 

“ O, mother ! if we only could do all the 
good we dream of doing ! ” 

“Why, then, dear child, the millennium 
would be at our doors.” She spoke seriously 
now. “ I know what you mean, my daughter. 
But people so often ignore the close-crowding 
duties to grasp the far-away ideal. I have 
never yet seen a life that I thought too 
faithful to the thousand-and-one little cares 
and duties which are surely given us by the 
Master, who was not unwilling even to 4 wash 
the disciples’ feet.’ Yet, I like to see your 
eager wish for service, my daughter, — 

4 To let the new life in, we know, 

Desire must ope the portal.’ 


Give me my scrap-book from the table, please. 






“ There, dear, take it to your room to read.” 




LONGINGS. 


109 


and let me find that poem. I am sure you 
will enjoy it. There, dear, take it to your 
room, to read, and get a little comfort from 
the being ‘good in thought,’ until God opens 
the way for pronounced ‘ action.’ ” 

Margaret listened attentively. She was very 
like her mother. She had inherited from her 
the strong nature that must work, or wear 
itself out in vain strivings. In the one that 
nature was satisfied with home cares and 
responsibilities, its impetuosity tempered by 
the patience God had given in answer to her 
earnest prayers. The other, young and rest- 
less, had not learned yet her own needs, nor 
the limitations of her powers. 

It wasn’t hospital work she needed. The same 
discontent would have followed her there. She 
would have been forced to realize painfully how 
infinitismal was the part she could do, compared 
with the mighty work she had intended to ac- 
complish. 

Her mother’s mild words crushed that dream 


110 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


even at its beginning. She had no wish to give 
the world crude work of any kind, and she 
lacked the requisite training. Her restless fancy 
constantly suggested new plans, but there was 
always something to thwart them. 

She wondered at the simple interests that 
seemed to content Nettie, yet oftentimes found 
herself envying the merry good-humor that could 
be so easily sustained. 

Margaret, Louise, and Bertie had laughingly 
agreed, when leaving school, to write a sort of 
retrospect of this year and forward a copy to 
each of the others on the anniversary of gradua- 
tion. The time was drawing very near. Marga- 
ret expected a queer, racy sketch from Louise, 
and something sweet and pure from Bertie. For 
herself “there is nothing to write,” she thought 
bitterly. But she would not break her word, 
so a few days before the time agreed upon, she 
sat down and wrote as follows: 

“I can chronicle naught but emptiness. The year has 
held for me no noble work nor hearty joy. It has been, in 


LONGINGS. 


Ill 


all important respects, a failure. I have tried to enjoy it, 
and that has been, I believe, my only ambition. Can any- 
thing be more ignoble ? I am no stronger, no happier, cer- 
tainly no better for it. 

“ I miss you and love you. The memory of our old 
pleasant days is as fresh as ever. And if I ever am a woman 
you need not be ashamed to call your friend, it will be largely 
due to the influence of the Merrivale years. 

“ For the present I am not going higher, perhaps not losing 
ground, but just creeping along in the old way. That sums 
up the time since I said ‘good-by.’ May your living have 
been nobler, better. May that yet to come be bright with 
God’s blessing.” 

Such was her morbid picture of her life. She 
took a fierce pleasure in sending the lines to 
her friends, conscious, though she was, that they 
would not accept just such a discouraging state- 
ment as fact. 

Louise did send, as she had anticipated, a 
lengthy and interesting history of her year, put- 
ting herself constantly in the most ludicrous 
light, and giving to the whole account such a 
coloring from her comical way of saying things, 
as to cause more smiles than sighs. She yet 
failed to keep quite out of sight the self-denial 


112 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


and brave endeavor that had made the twelve 
months such an honorable record. 

Bertie, of course, could send them but the 
merest remembrance. It brought the tears 
to read it, with its brief words of steadfast 
affection, that had been mindful of them even 
at the darkest. 

Margaret was conscious, after reading both 
their letters, how her own abrupt, reckless 
summary must have pained the readers. But 
in her present mood she could make * no other 
estimate. 

Turning over the contents of her writing- 
desk half absently, her eye fell upon the 
poem which her mother had given her several 
days before, and which other calls upon her 
attention had caused her to forget. Taking it 
up now, she went over to the window, the 
better to read it in the fading light. 

“ Humph ! ‘ Longing.’ I can do enough of 
that without any help.” But the defiant look 
died from her face as she read. 


LONGINGS. 


113 


LONGING. 

“ Of all the myriad moods of mind 
That through the soul come thronging, 

Which one was e’er so dear, so kind, 

So beautiful as longing? 

The thing we long for, that we are, 

For one transcendent moment ; 

Before the present, poor and bare, 

Can make its sneering comment. 

“Still, through our paltry stir and strife, 
Grows down our wished ideal ; 

And longing moulds in clay, what life 
Carves in the marble real ; 

To let the new life in, we know, 

Desire must ope the portal ; 

Perhaps the longing to be so 
Helps make the soul immortal. 

“ Longing is God’s fresh heavenward will 
With our poor earthward striving ; 

We quench it that we may be still 
Content with merely living ; 

But, would we learn the heart’s full scope, 
Which we are hourly wronging, 

Our lives must climb from nope to hope 
And realize our longing. 

“ Ah ! let us hope that to our praise 
Good God not only reckons 


114 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


The moments when we tread His ways, 

But when the spirit beckons; 

That some slight good is also wrought 
Beyond self-satisfaction, 

When we are simply good in thought, 

Howe’er we fail in action.” 

The paper dropped from Margaret’s fingers. 
The shadows deepened around her. The even- 
ing hush pervaded the little room. Only God 
knows how far “life shall carve in the marble 
real,” the longings of that hour. 


CHAPTER VII. 


TOGETHER AGAIN. 

A UGUST, Auntie ! I never was so glad 
^ for the month to begin before.” 

“And now it’s just for what it will bring 
you, I fancy. Poor child! You will find the 
heat hard enough to endure.” 

“ J ust look at me ! Do I look like a weak 
invalid ? I am not afraid of a little heat.” 

Bertie was sitting in the great arm-chair by 
the southern window, amusing herself some- 
times with her book, oftener in watching the 
passers-by. 

Her long curls had been sacrificed during her 
illness, and her hair clustered now in little rings 
close to her head. It gave her a singularly youth- 
ful appearance, which was not lessened by the 
XI S • 


116 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


simple white wrapper she wore. A tiny spray 
of flowers was fastened at her throat. Altogether, 
earnest eyes and white face, she seemed like 
some gentle flower fairy, or an impersonation 
of utter peace. But her next words reveal the 
characteristics of humanity. 

“ Mrs. Matthews, I am positively ashamed. 
Here is Louise coming to-morrow, and I’ve noth- 
ing to wear. Actually, not a single new dress 
this summer except these plain ones.” 

“ Well, won’t her friendship stand so severe 
a test as that?” laughed her listener. 

u Of course it will. Only one likes to be as 
fine as possible when anybody they love is 
coming.” 

Mrs. Matthews only smiled. She had a way 
of smiling a whole sentence at the person with 
whom she was talking, and Bertie answered her 
as if she had spoken. 

“No, auntie ; I don’t think that’s foolish. I 
certainly never care to dress much for the 
people I don’t care for. And it is not 


TOGETHER AGAIN. 


117 


vanity, I’m sure it isn’t, that makes me want 
to look well to my friends.” 

“ I believe you, my child. But don’t be 
troubled. You certainly won’t frighten her.” 

It didn’t seem as if “ new dresses ” would 
be quite in harmony with that little white face, 
and graceful figure. She still showed too plainly 
whither her path had lately tended, for those 
who loved her to think much yet of mere fanci- 
ful adornment. 

Bertie was not gaining rapidly. Her father 
was greatly pleased when he heard of Louise’s 
intended visit. Perhaps the very atmosphere 
of merriment her coming would bring to the 
quiet house, was just what his darling needed 
to brighten and cheer her. 

As for the invalid herself, she was almost 
childish in her delighted anticipations. A 
dozen times during this day had Mrs. Mat- 
thews been sent into Louise’s room to devise 
something more for her comfort. 

“ Though I am not going to let her stay 


118 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


there at all,” she would add, “ it will seem 
a little nicer to offer her a separate room at 
first; but I shall beg her to come with me 
after a little.” 

She could hardly go to sleep that evening, 
because of her excited pleasure. The next 
morning Mrs. Matthews found her sleeping 
soundly, and was careful not to rouse her. 

“ It will be worth more than medicine to 
her,” she explained to Mr. Arnold as she in- 
tercepted him at the door of his daughter’s 
room. “I wish she would sleep a good two 
hours longer.’’ 

It was ten o’clock before she heard Bertie’s 
call-bell. Going up-stairs, she found her with 
a brighter tinge of- color on her cheeks than 
she had yet seen during her convalescence, 
her eyes clear, and her voice cheery and 
strong. 

“ Oh, what a lazy girl I am ! ” as she told 
her the time. “ And Louise will be here at 
three o’clock ! Only five hours ! ” 


TOGETHER AGAIN. 


119 


It came into Mrs. Matthews’ mind once or 
twice during the forenoon what a terrible dis- 
appointment it would be to her charge if 
Louise failed to come that day. But she was 
relieved on that point a few moments after 
train time. The carriage returned to the house, 
holding another occupant. 

Bertie could hardly content' herself with 
giving her first kiss from the window, but 
being still too weak to leave her room, was 
obliged so to do. 

Mrs. Matthews, in the hall, received the 
briefest of salutations in acknowledgment of 
Mr. Arnold’s introduction, and got a pleasant 
but confused impression of a bright face very 
fresh in its coloring, great, happy-looking brown 
eyes, and a pretty little hand that was stretched 
out to her hurriedly, as its owner turned to 
follow Mr. Arnold up-stairs. The greeting 
there was not too hasty. 

Louise was startled, despite her previous 
knowledge of her friend’s sickness, at the 


120 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


pallor which was so much more intense than 
she had expected. She drew the little fragile 
creature into her arms in a close embrace, too 
happy and too much moved for many words. 

An hour later Mr. Arnold, going into the 
room, found Bertie lying on the lounge, and 
Louise sitting beside her brushing the short 
curls as they talked — it would be difficult to say 
which spoke most rapidly — 44 of when we were 
at Merrivale.” 

44 1 guess Bertie’s cure has commenced,” he 
said good-humoredly to Mrs. Matthews in the 
parlor. 44 She needed youthful company. I 
think we must prevail upon the bright-faced 
little girl to stay quite a while.” 

It was as he predicted. Louise seemed to 
bring with her the elixir of health. At all 
events, in a week from her coming, the inva- 
lid ceased to be a prisoner in her own room, 
and walked down-stairs quite strongly. 

44 Tell me how you liked school-teaching,” 
she questioned one clay. 


TOGETHER AGAIN. 


121 


Louise looked up from her work — a hand- 
kerchief she was marking — and smiled, shaking 
her head at the same time. 

“ Yes ; I want you to.” 

“Would it interest you much, ma belle ? It 
isn’t such a dainty, poetic life as yours. It’s 
solid and substantial and all that. I’m afraid 
you'd call it dull.” 

“ Why, Louise ! I’ve been to school. I 
always liked it, then ; so why shouldn’t I 
like to hear about it now?” 

“ Last winter I used to write you about 
my school. There’s nothing new about that 
one, but this year I have a different position. 
I’m twenty miles away from home, and am 
lady principal ” — she drew down her face 
soberly, and sat erectly dignified as she pro- 
nounced the words * — “ in the Academy at 
Brandon. The school numbers about sixty 
scholars. Of these, I have entire charge of 
the juveniles. And, Bertie, they invariably 
find my weak side, and impose upon my good 


122 


TO-DAYS AND YESTEEDAYS. 


nature. Wouldn’t you know they would? 

“ Among the older ones, the 4 incorrigibles ’ 
who try Mrs. Burnett’s patience beyond endurance 
are sent into the recitation room to Miss Carrol. 
Occasionally a few of the best scholars share 
that lot. There, in the pleasant little room 
whose windows overlook the river, I have worked 
and enjoyed since April.” 

“And don’t you ever get tired of it?” 

“Rarely. It’s good work, Bertie. Whether I 
am just fitted for it, I don’t know, but it does 
take hold of my heart wonderfully. It is pleasant 
to think what waves of influence I can set in 
motion there. And it makes one more careful. 
I wouldn’t wish to think or act hastily before 
my scholars. When I do, it gives me a heart- 
ache afterward.” 

“Well, Lou, one thing I want to ask. Do you 
find children better than you had supposed them, 
or worse ? ” 

Louise took many stitches in her embroidery 
before she answered. The question held fuller 


TOGETHER AGAIN. 


123 


meanings for her than it had done for Bertie. 
At last she spoke slowly. 

“ I think I am learning to be tolerant. I find 
so much in my own life that I can’t explain or 
even excuse ; so many sins creep unaware into 
my heart, that I try to be very slow in passing 
judgment upon others. 

“ Have I found children better than I imag- 
ined ? Yes. And worse? Yes; but they have 
helped to teach me one thing : to deem every 
human soul of priceless value, even when it looks 
at me from eyes that show few rays of purity. 
I have seen, in that little room where they come 
to me for daily help, more to encourage than to 
disappoint me.” 

She looked at Bertie a little deprecatingly. 

“Am I wearying you with all this serious 
talk?” 

“ No ; I love to hear it. Tell me how they 
have taught you this.” 

“ Well, when I first commenced teaching, I 
was very sensitive to little faults in the children. 


124 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


Unpleasant peculiarities of appearance or man- 
ners disturbed me. I found myself taking quick 
dislike to some poor little creatures for no more 
of a fault than stammering speech or awkward 
ways. I determined to get above such a small 
weakness as that, and I made myself remember 
that every one of these children was dear to 
somebody. That some mother had loved them 
all the way from their tender, helpless babyhood, 
and was hoping alwaj^s that they might be in 
all things happy and honorable. 

“ That thought did me good ; but another 
came afterward that has helped me more. 
Every one of these little lives is as precious 
in God’s sight as my own. The day must 
surely come when I shall stand as weak and 
helpless before Him as the weakest of these 
all. Could I bear to tell Him that I neg- 
lected one of his little ones for a causeless 
prejudice ? Above all, could I tell Him that 
I turned from the erring, simple ones who 
needed in twofold measure my pity and my love ? 


TOGETHER AGAIN. 


125 


“ So, you see,” smiling again, “ I try to 
think of it in that light. And it helps me 
wonderfully.” 

“ Why, Louise, how you have studied upon 
it ! I’m afraid, dear, you’re getting beyond 
me.” 

“We both ought to be a little beyond 
what we were a year ago. I was thinking of 
it last night before I went to sleep, how we 
had both been led . It came into my mind 
then to ask you something, Bertie. I don’t 
want to seem inquisitive, but have you come 
back from this terrible sickness just the same 
as before ? ” 

“ I’ll tell you sometime. Not just now.” 
And the talk drifted into other channels. 

In the evening, Mr. Arnold listening to the 
merry talk that kept them laughing, thought 
as others often did : “ What an attractive girl 
she is ! It’s a pity she hasn’t some touches 
of seriousness.” 

Bertie knew better. She had seen the 


126 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


truest phase of this many-sided character, and 
she knew that earnestness was not lacking in 
that nature which always showed to her its 
truest and best. 

One afternoon there came a ring at the 
bell, and Bertie, looking out, exclaimed with 
sudden perturbation, “It’s Mr. Warren, to see 
me, I guess.” 

“The physician?” inquired Louise. 

“No. Our pastor. He said he should come 
in again this week.” The servant came up 
with his card for Bertie. 

She went down to the parlor, the color 
flushing painfully in her cheeks. The hand 
she held out to him was nervously cold. 

It seemed scarcely reasonable to feel afraid 
of Mr. Warren. He showed at first glance a 
kindly, helpful nature, and the look he gave 
the little shrinking figure before him was 
almost fatherly in its affectionate interest. He 
did feel a peculiar attachment for this one of 
his young people. He had married her parents, 


TOGETHER AGAIN. 


127 


attended the funeral of her mother but two 
short years later, and had baptized the tiny 
babe she left. 

That motherless girl could never seem to 
him quite as others. From the day when he 
had held her in his arms as her unknowing 
infant eyes looked at the flower-strewn form 
in the coffin until now, he had watched her 
course solicitously and with unforgetful prayers. 
Now he questioned her face keenly. 

“Have you anything to say to me to-day, 
Bertie ? ” he asked at length, after they had 
talked a trifle constrainedly of various indif- 
ferent topics. 

She shook her head. 

“ Nothing ? ” with lingering, regretful accent. 
“You made my heart very happy a few weeks 
ago, when you told me of your resolve to 
seek the Saviour. Can it be, my child, that 
you are so soon weary of the effort?” 

Bertie’s heart beat rapidly. How could she 
put into words the exact truth of her expe- 


128 


TO-DAYS AND YESTEEDAYS. 


rience ! She spoke in a • moment, with quick, 
nervous abruptness. 

“I did try, Mr. Warren. I have been try- 
ing ; but it’s blind work ! ” 

“ Yes, Bertie.” 

44 Things don’t seem the same to me that 
they did in my quiet sick-room. Then the 
whole world was shut out. Now it is before 
me again, and I find it so easy to gravitate 
to the old way of thinking.” 

“ Which means no thinking at all, I am 
afraid. Bertie, I don’t want to seem unkind, 
but I must speak frankly to you. If in so 
short a time as this you could forget any of 
the friends who ministered so unceasingly to 
your needs during that dark time, we should 
think you pitifully thankless and ungrateful. 
What can I say, then, of the feeling that lets 
you forget the Friend who loved you best, 
and helped you most? It seems to me thank- 
less — thankless.” 

Her eyes filled. Bertie Arnold was generous 


TOGETHER AGAIN. 


129 


in feeling. She could not hear such words as 
these unmoved. But oh! if she could make 
her pastor understand how vague and unreal it 
all seemed to her — this mystery of regeneration. 

“I know you are disappointed in me,” she 
said sadly. “Do me this justice, won’t you? 
Believe that I have tried.” 

“ I am not wholly disappointed. You deny 
Him by your weak delay and indifference. But 
so many have done it before you ! The taints 
of our frail human nature are in every heart. 
The same nature which dwelt in those who, 
centuries ago, reviled, persecuted, slew Him. 
And, Bertie, you remember that when He might 
have escaped them, He would not. You remember 
the bitter taunt they flung at Him, 4 Himself he 
cannot save.’ And He hearing it, feeling, as He 
alone could feel, all the agony of that hour, en- 
dured it to the end. 

“ Much as you may dream and sentimentalize 
about your dainty theories, the plain fact remains. 
There was bitter need of that sacrifice, else it 


130 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


had not been made'. He did not suffer this agony 
to save us from any trifling danger. He bore it 
all to give us a chance of life. 

“A chance, Bertie. It is not forced upon 
us ; only offered. If you take it, He blesses 
you now and always. If you refuse, I can do 
no more than I am doing. I have prayed for 
you very earnestly, my child. I shall not forget 
you ; but I cannot become a cringing suppliant 
in this. Thy Master’s free gift, holy and precious 
beyond our ken, must never be abased and made 
of little worth.” 

“ O, Mr. Warren,” she exclaimed piteously, 
“ don’t speak to me like that ! ” 

“ I don’t mean to be cruel, Bertie, but you 
know I have talked with you so often during 
the last month ! It troubles me a little lest I 
have been trying to do the work for you. 
Won’t it be better for you to think for yourself? 
I have said enough.” His voice was very solemn. 

Her troubled thought found utterance. 

“ Oh, then I am left all alone ! So utterly alone, 


TOGETHER AGAIN. 


131 


for the nearest I can draw to Him is by your 
help. If you give me up, I shall hardly dare 
look up to Heaven. I don’t know why,” breath- 
lessly, “ but I never can make myself feel that 
God really cares in just the same patient sort of 
way ypu do. I wish I could.” 

“ In the way I do ! My child, I am only your 
minister. I may die to-morrow, or I may go from 
here and give my time and thought to new 
interests. Then, though I should not forget 
you, my poor narrow heart would be well-nigh 
filled with other thoughts. That’s all we can 
promise each other in this world. But He doesn’t 
forget or grow tired of us. Yes, Bertie,” replying 
to the question in her eyes, “ He does know 
sometimes when hope is gone.” 

“ Well ” — her lips were dry, her hands clasped — 
“ and how much can it matter to Him, among 
all the beautiful angels in the shining heavens ; 
how much can He care for a few souls, lost or 
saved ? ” 

“ Bertie, when He said ‘ I am with you alway,' 


132 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


I am sure He meant it. The heart that was 
tender unto the weakest life then, is the same 
to-day. And whether He cared then, we know. 
Surely none ever uttered a tenderer cry than He over 
his lost Jerusalem. The 4 1 would' and 4 ye would 
not ’ blended into a plaintive lament over the 
woe He had striven to avert. But we needn’t 
go back to the written history. Every life is 
full of his lessons. You think it wonderful 
that Lazarus was restored ta his weeping sisters ; 
but you find it very hard to keep in mind that 
He brought you from the very shores of the river 
of death back to health and happiness. The 
love, the mercy, are the same. You can look 
with admiring eyes into the dim past, but you 
ignore the providence-illumined present/’ 

44 1 know God has been very merciful. I wish 
I could feel it in the very depths of my 
heart.” 

44 God grant you may ! ” He rose to go. 
44 Bertie, if at any time you wish to speak with 
me, remember how glad I shall be to see you. 


TOGETHER AGAIN. 


133 


Until then I can hardly feel like introducing 
the subject again.” 

“ You have been very kind to me ; ” her lip 
quivering as she spoke. 

He took her hand as he said good-by. 

“ I shall pray for yoxx to-night, instead of with 
you.” 

She felt the difference with a desolate sense 
of loneliness. He had knelt there so often and 
besought the Lord’s blessing for her ! And she 
— why ! she realized now that she had accepted 
it as a matter of course. Every such thing had 
seemed to her only what she needed and might 
expect. And now the strongest prop was taken 
away. And then, her times of quiet musing in her 
own room were drifting from her. More and 
more it seemed she must learn to rely on her- 
self. 

Bertie had tried to be in earnest. She had 
come back to conscious life with an awed sense 
of God’s power and tender forbearance. That 
feeling was strong upon her in the dim twilight 


134 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


of her sick chamber. In the light and sunshine 
of busy, active life it grew dim ; almost faded 
from her mind sometimes. It remained to be 
proved whether it would utterly vanish, or be 
revived into a saving power. 

She pondered seriously, sitting alone in the 
parlor after she had watched Mr. Warren’s tall 
figure down the street, what she ought to do. 

She had told her father that this renewed 
life of hers should be consecrated to the Lord. 
She knew she had his most earnest prayers. 
How would he feel if he knew Mr. Warren had 
ceased to plead with her? 

It was an hour before she could compose her- 
self enough to join Louise above-stairs. They 
had been reading John Halifax when she was 
called away, and had nearly finished it. She 
found, when at last she went into her room, 
that Louise had put away the book till such 
time as they could share its closing chapters. 

She noticed that her friend’s busy fingers were 
at work upon some needed sewing of her own, 


TOGETHER AGAIN. 


185 


and so offered to read aloud to her. Why was it 
that in a few moments she came to these 
words — 

“ Aspiration which never can rest, nor ought 
to rest, in anything short of the One absolute 
•Perfection — the One all-satisfying Good, ‘ in 
whom there is no variableness , neither shadow 
of turning .’ ” 

She read the words slowly. No sure rest 
anywhere else ; and oh ! she could not find it 
here. She read on until she finished the book, 
and laid it aside ; talked of its contents a 
few moments with Louise, then walked to the 
window and looked out at the leaden sky. A 
storm was gathering, and the clouds seemed 
marshalling in sombre columns in the west. A 
dull, dreary tone in the wind made her sigh. 
Oh ! the world looked, for the moment, very 
gray and gloomy. And she could not pierce 
the clouds, and so look upward to where the 
sun was shining. But nothing of her pained 
revery was uttered to her friend. 


136 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


Only once — it was the day before Louise’s 
long visit was to end — she alluded to her 
feelings on the matter. 

“ I am not a Christian, dear friend, but I am 
trying to be one. If ever I do come to love 
the Lord earnestly and sincerely, it will be* 
the greatest, joy I can ask. Now — I am — 
so discouraged — so tired ! ” 

“I have feared so, Bertie, Don’t get dis- 
couraged ! He will surely help you. I shall 
be so glad, darling, when the time comes that 
you can call yourself truly a Christian,” with 
earnest emphasis. 

“And you?” 

“Oh! I am just what I am. Don’t try to 
measure yourself by me.” 

“But, Louise dear, I have noticed such a 
change in you.” 

“Yes; I am not utterly blind or heartless. 
But, Bertie, I am not a Christian. I have 
never been under conviction of sin. I don’t 
know how one feels who is really penitent 


TOGETHER AGAIN. 


137 


and flies to the Saviour. But I most heartily 
reverence the Christian religion. I wish you 
were within the fold of the Church ! ” 

Her face wore a softened expression, and 
her hand stroked Bertie’s hair gently. 

-* “ And, Louise, I don’t like us to be sepa- 
rated even in this.” 

Louise smiled. 

“ Little faithful Bertie ! Does it wound you 
to go onward and leave us ? Don’t feel so ! 
That isn’t for you to determine ! ” 

After which, she resolutely changed the 
subject. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


THE ANNIVERSARY. 


ES, mother” — Allan Grantley spoke cheer- 



fully — “it will be a year to-morrow 
since graduation. It scarcely seems so long.” 

He was sitting by the kitchen window in 
the hair-cloth rocking-chair of “ best-room ” 
memory, which his mother delighted in calling 
“ Allan’s.” A fresh breeze blew through the 
room, bringing in the pleasant odor of new- 
mown hay and climbing honeysuckle. 

Allan’s face, radiant with health and happi- 
ness, had grown manly during that working 
year. There is a comprehensive calmness in 
its expression now that it had lacked a year 
ago ; a look as of one who faces - his future 
fairly, and squares his shoulders for whatever 


138 


THE ANNIVERSARY. 


139 


burden may be placed upon them, sure that 
it is divinely placed, and so can be borne. 

He had been looking at his hands, hard- 
ened with the toil of the summer, and men- 
tally contrasting them with Harold’s delicate, 
idle ones. Something in the contrast made 
him smile ; but a moment later, as a sad 
thought followed like a shadow upon the track 
of this lighter one, he repressed a sigh, and 
turned toward his mother, just entering the 
room, answering some previous remark of hers 
with the words I have given. 

“Did you find time to write to them all, 
Allan?” 

“ Certainly, mother mine. 1 shouldn’t have 
been a very trusty class secretary not to attend 
to that. And many of them I’ve scarcely heard 
a word from during the time. Won’t it be 
pleasant to-morrow if they all answer, as of 
course the majority will?” 

“ There have been no deaths ? ” 

“None, I trust. Little Bertie Arnold has 


140 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


been very sick, but I hear she is recovering. 
Harold wrote me of her sickness. Full par- 
ticulars, as his cousin Josephine heard them. 
By the way, Harold hasn’t been very prompt 
about writing lately.” 

Just then one of the farm hands came to 
him for directions, and Allan went out to the 
barn with him. He heard two of the other 
men in earnest conversation. 

“Yes, beaten again,” said one. “This is a 
terrible defeat.” 

“ It does seem,” answered his companion, 
impatiently, “ as if there ought to be loyal 
men enough to crush out this rebellion.” 

“ Aye, but it does. If it were not for my 
sick wife and little children I’d enlist before 
to-morrow.” 

The young man, hearing, turned and walked 
toward the door, as if to breathe the fresh 
air of morning. His eyes had darkened and 
deepened; his strong right hand was tightly 
clinched. 


THE ANNIVERSARY. 


141 


“Yes, John, take the horses. I am coming 
directly.” He looked toward the house as he 
spoke. 

His mother stood upon the porch, at leisure 
for a moment to take her share of sunshine 
and field-pictures. She strove always to keep 
her life fresh by these quiet influences that 
come soft-falling as the dew. Allan looked at 
her intently. 

The sun shone upon the white hair, still 
thick and glossy, despite the sprinkling of 
Time’s snows upon it ; her face, the gentle, 
womanly face, wearing a faint bloom from 
the fresh morning air. 

He walked towards the house hurriedly. 

“ Mother, you haven’t got tired of me yet, 
have you? We’ve been talking about it, you 
know.” 

She turned and looked at him, her tall boy, 
who standing at the foot of the steps still almost 
reached to her level. 

“ The only son of his mother, and she a 


142 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


widow.” The words seemed uttered unconsciously. 
“JVb, Allan, I am not tired of you.” 

“ I know it, mother. It came into my mind 
to ask you.” He halted again, half way down 
the walk. “ Don’t work too hard this forenoon, 
will you ? Lizzie doesn’t need much help, and I 
hate to have you get tired.” 

He walked slowly up the hill. The sunshine 
failed to soothe the pain at his heart. 

“ Defeated again ! ” Oh, how many times must 
he live through that struggle that came to him 
daily ! If he could but give all his young 
strength, from love as well as duty, to his coun- 
try ! But his poor widowed mother, ought he 
to think of going and leaving her ? “ If I 

were sure of coming back she could endure it. 
But how could she bear all the anxiety and 
fear? It is hard, bitterly hard.” 

John Armstrong, eager to communicate impor- 
tant news that had reached him since leaving 
home, spoke to him as he came into the field. 

“ Wilson’s sons have enlisted, two of ’em, 


THE ANNIVERSARY. 


143 


and Bobby Murray. I don’t know, Mr. Grantley, 
but that I shall go next.” The rough, warm- 
hearted fellow spoke with honest feeling. 

“ I shall give you ‘ God speed,’ John, if you 
decide to go. We’ve nothing too good to give 
to our country, not even life itself.” 

John’s eyes flashed. “ O, Mr. Grantley, I 
wish you’d get up a company. I’d like to have 
you for a captain.” 

The young man’s glance wandered toward the 
house. The quiet figure still stood there — his 
mother. 

“If I don’t go, John, it’s from no lack of 
patriotism. If I can judge my own heart truly, 
there is nothing too dear for me to yield. But 
there are other lives beside our own. We must 
think of them, too, you know.” 

“I know; I understand. You oughtn’t to go, 
I suppose. If you go, I do believe it would 
break her heart.” 

The horses were pawing restlessly. Armstrong 
turned away to commence his work, pondering 


144 


TO-DAYS AND YESTEBDAYS. 


in his slow, careful way upon whether he ought 
to go. Allan, who scarcely dared allow him- 
self to think about it, hastened to where his 
men were waiting. 


The next day came the letters. He counted 
them hastily. Almost the full number. He took 
them up to his room for a quiet reading. I can- 
not give you in detail all their pleasant con- 
fidences. Some were especially pleasant. He 
smiled, reading what Louise said of herself. 

“Let me think. Was I the genius of the school at Merri- 
vale ? I know I used to have my head decked in some way, 
hut whether it was with the laurel wreath or the dunce-cap, 
I am too modest or too truthful to declare. 

“I know my present position, however. I am * highly ac- 
complished and deservedly popular as Preceptress of Brandon 
Academy.’ So said a recent copy of the Gazette, and such 
authority I don’t presume to dispute. 

“ That’s outside , Mr. Grantley. At heart I am much like 
the girl you knew, foolish enough and bad enough, but 
trying a little, too, in a weak sort of way, to get into the 
right path.” 

The letter went on through various windings, 
now merry, anon thoughtful, perhaps sad. 


THE ANNIVERSARY. 


145 


The reader smiled as he folded it. 

“ I am not so sure she is frivolous after all,” 
he soliloquized. “ I used to think she never 
could be thoughtful, but she seems to be work- 
ing her way bravely.” 

Margaret wrote very briefly, giving a simple 
description of her daily life, as she might have 
spoken to a casual acquaintance. At the close 
a little touch of feeling was manifest. 

“This of myself,” she said. “For you, my 
best wishes, my' kindest remembrance. I never 
think of you without instinctive joy that one, 
at least, of our number is a Christian. A Chris- 
tian gentleman, Grantley ! What higher ambition 
could you have ? God bless you in that, always.” 

He read on through many more. Grade told 
of her approaching marriage, tender joy running 
through all her words. 

Carrie Gleason, the youngest member of the 
class, wrote him of failing health. 

“ Don’t look sad, Mr. Grantley, when you read this, but 
I think, and I am sure my friends think, that this 


146 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


is the last anniversary on which I can expect to hear from 
the absent friends. It almost broke my heart at first, 
but I am learning to bear it. Of late, I have forgotten 
to think so often about last summer, and the green fields 
all around the village. You know I was one of the 
merriest then. Now I only walk a few steps down the 
street, and come in with fluttering heart and wearing 
cough. By next summer I shall be safe at home, I think. 
Do you remember what the minister said to us at grad- 
uation last year ? I have thought of it so many times. 
He trusted every one of us might keep our garments 
free from earth-stains; as pure and white as the draperies 
we wore that day. Sometimes now I look at my gradu- 
ating dress and think — with a few tears, though not 
sorrowful ones — that I am to be taken care of. If I go 
now, I shall escape all the weary fight against ‘earth- 
stains/ And Jesus has cleansed me from my sins. I 
am not afraid to go to Him.” 

The paper trembled in Allan’s hand. 

“ Happy little Carrie ! ” 

He recalled her quaint, merry speeches, her 
childish face and manners. Must this be her 
lot? For a few moments his eyes were too 
dim to read the next letter. 

He found that with many of the young 
men of his class this had been a year of action. 
One wrote that he had gone into business ; 


THE ANNIVERSARY. 


147 


another that he was teaching ; several that they 
were hard at work in college. 

At length he looked for Harold’s letter. 
“He ought to write me a long one to atone for 
past deficiencies,” he thought smilingly. But 
he failed to find the familiar writing. He 

looked them over a second time, but was again 
disappointed. 

“ Never mind ; it will be here to-morrow.” 

Thinking thus, he took up another, which 
proved to be Bertie Arnold’s. 

She told, in few words, the history of her 
year ; its quiet joys, its home peace and con- 
tent, and then of the shadow that fell upon 

her in the early summer. He had heard of 
her illness before, but it came to him with 

new force reading her own words that gave 

such reality to the picture. 

“ Thank God, you are better, Bertie, my 
friend,” he whispered, as he lingered over the rI - 
letter. 

The next was from Robert Harding, one of 


148 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


the vigorous, energetic students who was 
always foremost in duty and in pleasure. It 
bore a Southern postmark. 

tc Thanks, Allan, for your thoughtfulness in writing 
some time in advance. Your letter was re-mailed to me 
from home, and I hasten to send my answer, trusting 
that it will reach you by the 23d, in season for the ‘ an- 
nual report.’ I am down here where there’s work to be 
done. I wish you were here with me, Grantley, but I 
suppose you are doing your duty somewhere else. As for 
me, I couldn’t stay away. I am waiting now for action. 
And when there’s’ anything to do, I hope to find my place 
till this is over, if I live. If I should fall — why, I ran 
the risk of that in coming — it would be a glorious death. 
I want to see the dear old flag in its place again, and 
what my heart and arm can do is done willingly.” 

Then came the last letter, in unfamiliar 
writing. He looked at the signature, “ Oscar 
S. Montgomery.” Not Frank’s name, but his 
father’s. 

“ I opened your letter, the father wrote,” 
and read it with feelings which I leave you 
to imagine. At that very moment my boy was 
lying dead, wrapped in the Stars and Stripes 
he loved. I put your letter into his hand, 


THE ANNIVERSARY. 


149 


knowing how he would have grasped it, living. 
He went away from home three months ago. 
4 1 shall be home this summer. Never fear,’ 
were his parting words. And he has come. 
We hush our mighty grief and try to 
remember how nobly he yielded up his life. 
But it is terribly hard to bear, even then.” 

The restless look came again into Allan’s 
face. “Frank has gone beyond me.” He scarcely 
realized, at first, that he was dead, only that 
he was forever honored. 

He put the letters away in his desk, and tak- 
ing his hat, walked down to the grove. To-mor- 
row he must re-examine, and write his report 
based upon what he had read. But this first 
hour must be given to eager thought. What 
a changeful, crowded year it had been ! Love 
and death, glory and suffering, mingled strangely 
in his thoughts. 

It was hard to realize that little Carrie was 
slowly going out from life. Harder still that 
Frank Montgomery was gone even now. 


150 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


Ah, there would be vacant places at their 
reunion. Reunion ! Is there such a thing, 
really, in this ever-changing world? 

He mused a moment drearily, then his face 
brightened. His thought went upward. 

Going into the house in the early twilight, 
a little worn and weary, he paused at the 
open door, hearing his mother’s voice, then 
entered the room so quietly as not to disturb 
her reading. 

“ One who, because he overcomes us so, 

Because he is most noble, and a king, 

Can well prevail against our fears, and fling 
His purple round us, till our hearts do grow 
So close against his heart as not to know 
How weak they are alone.” 

The thin, weak voice dropped into silence. 
She closed her book, and rose to leave the 
room. 

“Thank you, mother. You have done me 
more good than you know.” 

She put her hand on his hot forehead. 

“ Are you sick, my son ? ” 


THE ANNIVERSARY. 


151 


“ No ; oh no ! But this is one of the days, 
you know. I’m only tired, I guess.” 

“As not to know how weak they are alone,” 
he repeated to himself as she left the room. 
It was the triumphant answer to his pained 
discouragement. 


CHAPTER IX. 


WHEAT, OR TARES? 


RETTY Nettie Carrington stood by the 



-*■ dining-room window one fresh Septem- 
ber morning, drumming restlessly with her fin- 
ger-tips, and trying very hard to keep back 
the tears that filled her eyes. 

Her mother, coming .in, noticed her depres- 
sion, and stopped to ascertain the cause. 

“ What troubles you, Nettie ? ” 

The girl tried to smile as she answered: 
“Nothing much, mother. Only Margaret ” — her 
tone grew resentful — “ has been saying all 
manner of things to me about the croquet 
club, and at last, declared positively that she 
will not play or even make her appearance 
when it meets here. I don’t think it’s a bit 


WHEAT, OR TARES? 


153 


kind or sisterly of her, and I’ve told her so. 
I daresay her ladyship doesn’t like it, but I 
am entirely out of patience with her airs.” 

The mother raised a warning finger. 

‘“Count twenty-five, Tattycoram,”’ she expos- 
tulated, in comical imitation of the excellent 
Mr. Meagles. 

Nettie, who was noted for her admiration 
of Dickens, smiled at the allusion. But the 
clouds gathered again. 

“Well, mother, do you think it’s just right 
in her ? I don’t mind it so much if she 
doesn’t choose to play, but to say such con- 
temptuous things ! I am hurt and angry. I 
can’t help it.” 

“Perhaps there is some reason more than 
you know, darling, for Margaret’s feelings. I 
will talk with her about it, by and by. Very 
possibly the croquet club may not seem so 
important to her as to you. She is older, 
you know.” 

“Yes, mother, I do know. And she always 


154 


TO-DAYS AND YESTEKDAYS. 


used to be kind to me, but lately I don’t 
admire my elder sister very — ” 

“ Nettie ! I can't listen to you when you 
speak like that. If Margaret has said unkind 
things there is no excuse for you to imitate 
her. 1 wish my little daughter would learn 
to subdue her temper.” 

The girl seemed touched at her mother’s 
gentle rebuke. She was very amenable to 
good advice, this same little Nettie, and it 
was seldom indeed that she presujned to 
differ from her mother’s expressed opinion. 

Mrs. Carrington sighed a little as she went 
to her room. Busying herself there with her 
morning duties she was conscious of a painful 
sense of discouragement. 

Such complaints from Nettie were growing 
far too frequent. The mother felt sadly cer- 
tain, from her own observation, that occasions 
for them were manifold. And now, when 
Margaret was entering upon womanhood, why 
was it that she seemed to cause more discords 


WHEAT, OR TARES? 


155 


in her daily life than she had ever done in 
childhood? She was not quite satisfied think- 
ing how quiet she had been in the matter. 
She had hardly been willing to speak to her 
daughter of the morbid restlessness that marred 
her own happiness, and that of those around 
her. She had hoped it would gradually wear 
away, but week by week it seemed to 
become a more confirmed habit of the mind. 

The mother’s loving, observant heart was 
conscious of some discordant strains in the 
music of that young life ; of something lack- 
ing from the harmony that her bright, fresh 
youth should have made. She resolved to 
touch the chords with gentle hand, and try 
to attune them better. 

With the afternoon came an opportunity. 
Several of Nettie’s young friends called for 
her to join them in a walk. And thus 
Margaret was left alone with her mother. 

Her face wore rather a forbidden expression. 
She had not wholly recovered from the morn- 


156 


TO-DAYS AND YESTEBDAYS, 


ing’s ill-humor, and Nettie’s quiet, somewhat 
sad face had been a reproach to her. When 
Margaret was ill at ease, she. always seemed 
out of temper, and now, when her mother 
began speaking to her, there was small 
encouragement in the averted face before her. 

Her first words were unimportant. 

“ I’m glad the girls have such a pleasant 
afternoon. They are so happy in these ram- 
bles.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I suppose you took a great many such when 
you were at school.” 

“A great many, yes. Not precisely such as 
these, I fancy.” 

Mrs. Carrington looked up questioningly, but 
Margaret's black eyes were bent upon her work, 
and failed to meet the glance. 

“ How were they different?” she asked at 
length. 

“ Chiefly, perhaps, in our remembering that 
we were rational human beings, and not chat- 


WHEAT, OR TARES? 


157 


tering like so many magpies about dress and 
kindred topics.” * 

“ Why, my child ! Aren’t you a little unchari- 
table ? You certainly don’t know that such is 
the staple of their conversation.” 

Margaret bit her lip, repressing the’ reply that 
came into her mind. It was a part of her code 
of honor to be scrupulously respectful to her 
parents. And she spoke at last in a far milder 
strain than when addressing poor Nettie. 

“ I have heard them talk many times, until 
I grew so weary of it that I avoid the entire 
clique. I don’t want to be uncharitable, but, 
mother, certainly, I never knew such frivolous 
girls as Nettie’s chosen friends and companions. 
There’s nothing but froth and nonsense in any 
of their lives.” 

Her mother’s face was very grave. 

“ It would be just as fitting for you to con- 
demn the rose-buds and the violets, Margaret, 
because they are not fruit-laden, or in any way 
useful. In spring we look naturally for spring 


158 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


freshness. Blossoms and perfumed daintiness 
now, and real growth and fruit-growing by and 
by. That's the natural order of things.” 

“ Yes, mother ; but the staring, flaunting 
hollyhocks and poppies please us less than the 
pansies and the lilies. If you use that simile, 
I must still beg for gentler, more retiring spring 
flowers.” 

“ I am tolerably well content with those we 
find about us. I love my own little wild rose 
which blooms among those you condemn, quite 
too well to desire much change.” 

Margaret was silent. 

“ It seems to me,” her mother went on, “ as 
if the trouble lies — in part, at least — elsewhere. 
I greatly fear that there is some glamour over 
your eyes which prevents your seeing the best 
side of these natures. Careless and thoughtless 
these girls may be : I do not doubt it ; but I 
know well their warm, loving hearts. And then, 
sixteen years is such a very short time to have 
lived. One feels more like wondering that they 


WHEAT, OR TARES? 


159 


have learned even so much of life than blaming 
them for what they do not know.” 

“ But, mother, it wasn’t such a very long time 
ago that I was sixteen. I know I wasn’t 
quite so shallow as Jennie Whipple and Lizzie 
Whiting, for instance.” 

“You were unlike the majority of girls, Mar- 
garet. You were more mature than most. 
Now, you are no more like other girls of 
twenty; but, my daughter, I had rather see 
you less intellectual than to feel that the brain 
development had dwarfed and chilled the 
heart. You don’t seem happy or content of 
late. I have noticed it for months ; and I 
have tried to make your life pleasant and 
profitable. But I am coming gradually to feel 
that the fault is not in your surroundings, but 
in yourself. I think you must apply a remedy 
there.” 

Margaret’s eyes flashed for a moment, and 
her lip trembled; but only for a moment. 
When she spoke, it was quite calmly. 


160 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


“ Upon this subject of Nettie’s companions 
we cannot, probably, agree. Perhaps 1 ought 
to tell you that this morning I declined any 
further association with them. If 3^011 think I 
ought to associate with them, however, I will 
do so.” 

“ Not grudgingly, or unwillingly, daughter 
mine. I don’t want you to feel bound to any 
society which is uncongenial. It isn’t that 
which troubles me. It is this spirit of intol- 
erance, of scornful indifference that seems so 
wrong. I wish that might give place to some- 
thing gentler.” 

“ It can’t. I am only honest in speaking as 
I do. They disgust me. But nothing interests 
me. It makes me almost desperate sometimes 
to look on through all ‘ the weary waste of 
years,’ and think of this barren, thirsty life 
of mine.” 

“ Don’t do it. Never say that again.” 

Mrs. Carrington spoke almost vehemently. 

“ If you grow weary of such a life as 


WHEAT, OR TARES? 


161 


yours, Margaret, God may give you something 
different. He tries us in many ways. When 
we murmur in our prosperity, we cannot 
wonder if He covers us with the salt waves 
of sorrow.” 

“I dare say the fault is in myself. I ought 
not to speak in this way to you, but now I 
have begun, let me make out as plain a 
case as possible. Here I am almost twenty 
years old; a woman who ought to be doing 
her work in the world somewhere, and I am 
just idling away my time. I have education 
enough to make me long for nobler privileges, 
broader culture ; and I have ambition that 
stops only at the highest, and that goads me 
cruelly in this life whose blessings are the 
very chords that bind me down. I know I 
ought to be content and thankful. My lot is 
very pleasant. But, mother, the actual of my 
experience is as unlike my earlier dreams as 
the gray-tinted, cloudy day is unlike the crim- 
son sunrise which preceded it.” 


162 


to-days and yesterdays. 


“ And yet, Margaret, I am sure those ‘ earlier 
dreams’ of yours lacked something. You know 
the beautiful city above needeth no light of 
sun, nor moon, for the ‘ Lamb is the light 
thereof.’ 

“ Missing that illumining, your rarest day- 
dawn, your fairest noontide, your brightest 
western sky has but an earthly radiance. 
Did you place that day-star in your pictures, 
Margaret ? ” 

“Not always, nor often. But I have not 
been quite forgetful.” 

“ I tremble for you, sometimes, my child, 
when I think what providence may lead you 
to the peace and content you need. 

“To some, He comes in the still, small voice 
of daily teachings ; to others He sendeth 
terrible lessons that remain graven indelibly 
upon the quivering heart that receives 'them. 
It seems to me, my daughter, that He 
has appealed to you by every generous bles- 
sing. He has just crowded your life with 


WHEAT, OR TARES? 


163 


mercies, and now you cry out against its 
emptiness. Blame him not if he fills it in 
his own way ! ” 

“ But, mother, what would you have me 
do ? Am I to blame if I feel this horizon 
too narrow ? I am longing for action ; to feel 
that I am of some use in the world. I am 
weary of inglorious idleness. ” 

Mrs. Carrington smiled. 

“ There does seem a ^difficulty. My own 
days are always so busy I haven’t realized 
that time was hanging so heavily upon your 
hands. The eldest daughter in a family cer- 
tainly has no need to complain of not having 
anything to do. To be sure there is no actual 
necessity for you to take charge of much work — 
for the present, at least — but there are many 
duties you could most profitably assume. In 
the first place, it would be very pleasant for 
me if you would share my calls and visits. 
I am often too tired to attend to all I wish 
in society, and it would be a great relief if 


164 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


you undertook to return civilities which I very 
many times am obliged to neglect. Then, 
Margaret, I’ve heard papa say, almost impa- 
tiently sometimes, 4 1 did expect when Margaret 
came home she would interest herself in riding 
with me, and going about as she used to.’ 
You could brighten his few leisure hours won- 
derfully. 

“Again, Nettie is exceedingly anxious to read 
French, which she hasn’t yet commenced. How 
could she do better than to begin the study 
under your supervision? You say you long 
for broader culture ; then gain it. Take a 
regular course of reading and study, with 
teachers or without, as you may choose. Work 
off these dreary discouragements. They will 
vanish of themselves in the atmosphere of 
busy exertion and cheerful effort. 

“I tell you, Margaret, you will find the 
truest happiness in forgetting to seek it. ‘He 
that seeketh r his life, shall lose it.’ ‘He that 
loseth his life for my sake and the Gos- 


WHEAT, OR TARES? 


165 


pel's ’ — notice the condition — 4 shall find it.’ ” 

44 You are making it very practical.” Her 
eyes showed a gleam of interest. 44 Certainly 
you have given me enough to do.” 

44 Not too much for your present state of mind. 
I think leisure is unhealthful for you. You can 
enjoy that better when you get more truly recon- 
ciled to life. I want to make my words practical, 
and I want to add plainer ones still. Take the 
Lord Jesus as your Saviour, and you will begin 
to live worthily. Look upon the life He lived 
on earth — that toilsome, care-filled life — and 
you will realize how little he spared himself, 
even though he oftentimes lets us rest so long that 
we grow discontented. 

44 Be a Christian. Thus and thus alone can 
you reach the ideal of your thought, the dim 
vision toward which you look with such craving 
earnestness.” 

A ring at the bell, and their colloquy was 
ended. But Mrs. Carrington noticed that Mar- 
garet did not leave the room, as was her wont, 


166 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


but remained to chat cordially with Mrs. Green, 
a somewhat tiresome old lady who talked of her 
favorite hobbies — homoeopathy and church doc- 
trine — vibrating between medicine and theology 
in a manner singular to witness. 

Margaret did think, “ And society is largely 
made up of just such absurdities ! ” but a look 
at her mother’s intellectual, yet sympathetic face 
modified the thought. 

The old parable of the wheat and tares holds 
good now as ever. The strange commingling 
of opposite elements go on throughout the 
world. She need not vex herself to right all the 
wrongs or infuse sense into all the follies. Her 
cheek flushed a little. She was thinking of 
what her mother told her once when she was 
begging for something to do. 

“ Just a very little attended to faithfully, Mar- 
garet, is worth more than all the half-finished 
work in the world. I see a very great tendency 
in you to try your hand at everything and finish 
nothing.” 


WHEAT, OR TARES? 


167 


Was the fault of the child conspicuous still 
in the woman ? She listened more patiently 
to Mrs. Green’s platitudes, because of her self- 
accusing thought. 

» 

When Nettie came home that night she was 
surprised to find her sister strangely gentle and 
affectionate to her. The warm-hearted little 
creature readily forgot the disagreement of the 
morning in present kindness, and the transient 
cloud passed. As days wore away and no other 
darkened their domestic sky, Mrs. Carrington 
began to hope a radical change had been effected 
in Margaret’s way of viewing things. 

In this she was, to some extent, mistaken. 
The change was owing more to regard for 
her, and to a resolute will, than to any 
change of feelings. 

Margaret followed her mother’s advice in 
many things, proving a thorough and faithful 
teacher to Nettie, and an agreeable companion 
to her often-wearied father, who was proud of 
his daughter’s talents, and liked to stimulate 


168 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


her to new researches. She planned a busy 
winter for herself. 

“ I do hope Bertie will be well enough to 
come here before my birthday,” she said often 
to Nettie. “ It seems discouraging that she 
remains so delicate.” 

Bertie, meanwhile, was hoping strongly that 
she would be quite well with cooler weather, 
and able to take the journey which had been 
quite beyond her strength during the early 
autumn. 

“ What a splendid girl your sister Margaret 
is,” said Jennie Whipple to Nettie one night as 
they sat in garden-chairs at the foot of the 
lawn, after the other girls had left them. 

The croquet club had flourished, and Nettie 
had been annoyed by no more scathing 
remarks about her friends. Very unconcernedly 
Margaret joined them sometimes, and always 
treated the young girls with the utmost 
kindness. 

“ I do think she’s ever so nice ! ” 


WHEAT, OR TARES? 


169 


Nettie thought the admiration was hardly 
mutual, and felt somewhat amused. 

Margaret, sitting by her open chamber win- 
dow, heard Jennie’s words. She smiled a 
little sadly. “ You are warmer-hearted than I 
am, despite your so shallow speeches,” she 
murmured. “Well, I’m trying to treat them 
all well, and it’s certainly the best way. 
But, after all, I am not happy yet. Mother 
was right. I have only the earthly radiance 
in my pictures. Will they ever hold any 
thing better?” 


CHAPTER X. 


I WILL NOT. 


HE autumnal days grew shorter and more 



chilly. Winter was coming rapidly. 
The lengthened twilights, the long, hazy after- 
noons, the calm of air and sky during the 
bright days of Indian summer, the changeful 
brilliance of the forests, were giving place to 
the gray skies, leafless trees, and biting frosts 
of December. 

Margaret sat in her room just at dusk, de- 
bating in her own mind whether to go out to 
evening meeting, or remain at home tmd finish 
her book. Finally, she marked the place where 
she had been reading and laid it down ; lighted 
the gas, and going to the mirror began to 
brush the heavy black hair that fell low upon 
her forehead. 


170 


I WILL NOT. 


171 


Once and again she hesitated restlessly. At 
last, with a look of intense earnestness upon 
her face, as the bells rang out the hour, she 
resolutely hastened her preparations. As she 
stood in the bright light of her room, she 
seemed very unlike the girl who had caressed 
Bertie Arnold upon that other evening when 
we first saw her. 

The olden constraint, almost awkwardness of 
manner, had worn away. She was now as 
stately as ever, but more self-reliant and grace- 
ful in her young womanhood. 

Her dress was plain — that was always her 
taste — but elegant. One daintily-gloved hand 
held her little Testament ; the other twirled 
the silken tassel of her muff; but her face — 
Margaret’s face ! • — it wore a look that would 
send a pang to any loving heart. It seemed 
as if some bitter touch of worldliness or reck- 
less pain were hardening it, so tightly com- 
pressed were her lips, so utterly cold the 
brightness of her eyes. 


172 


TO-DAYS AND YESTEKDAYS. 


For many weeks she had 'been battling 
against a strange new feeling that had taken 
possession of her. It was a season of deep 
religious interest in the place, and she had not 
been free from the influences of the hour. 
Sometimes, as the Holy Spirit had striven with 
her, she had almost yielded. But her proud, 
stubborn heart would grow hard again. And 
now, when many of her young associates 
were rejoicing in a new-found Saviour, she was 
still outside, ill at ease, miserable, but obsti- 
nately determined to resist her agonizing con- 
victions. 

Of late she had absented herself from many 
of the meetings. It seemed as if she persist- 
ently kept out of the way of good. There 
were anxious hearts at home, but none deemed 
it wise to seek her confidence. 

Little Nettie, after many tears and prayers 
unto the Lord, had at last found him who 
had cared for her through sixteen happy years. 
She would go forth now into life with a new 


I WILL NOT. 


173 


strength, an earnestness inexpressibly sweet and 
touching, combined, as it was, with her natural 
joyousness and childish trust. 

She had told her sister of her great happi- 
ness. Her loving heart was full of prayerful 
thoughts of Margaret. But the elder sister 
was cold and quiet when she strove to plead 
with her, and the timid, tender voice would 
falter and almost fail at such icy indifference. 

But Margaret was not cold. She was suf- 
fering. She could understand something of 
the preciousness of Nettie’s faith. She remem- 
bered once, years before, when her heart had 
been deeply stirred ; and she could not 
ignore the value of that love which would 
brighten life and illumine death itself for 
Nettie. Would that she too had found it ! So 
she felt in her softened moods. 

To-night she walked down the street, past 
the chapel where their own meetings were 
held, on to a remote part of the city. She 
did not wish to see a single familiar face. If 


174 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


she could but creep in somewhere, unknown 
to any, and take her share of the manna 
which should be given to hungry souls in 
waiting, she would be content. 

It was a plain room that she entered at 
length. The light shone upon simple, quietly- 
dressed people ; upon faces that told their 
story of hard toil and unrequited effort. 

The beauty and freshness of life were not 
represented here. It seemed as if the weary 
ones had come into this still, sacred place 
for shelter from the outside storms that buf- 
feted them. Margaret took a seat near the 
door. Her eyes were downcast, her head 
bowed. This seemed to her “ more real ” than 
the familiar gatherings at the chapel. Those 
she saw there had the good things of this 
life. Religion was to them a help, an added 
gift. But these toil-worn faces and hardened 
hands; this plain, scanty clothing; the pathos 
of the whole assembly was something totally 
different. 


I WILL NOT. 


175 


“ And the poor have the gospel preached 
unto them.” For a moment there came to 
her a gleaming consciousness of the tender 
beauty of the words. Was not the religion 
that would come to all , boundlessly, better 
than the culture to which she aspired? Would 
she not find a purer, nobler happiness at the 
feet of. the risen Christ, than in all the wis- 
dom of the ages ? 

But they were beginning to sing. She re- 
called her wandering thoughts, and listened. 
It was no artistic performance. The music, 
as such, was weak and faulty, but the spirit 
of song was in their hearts. One voice after 
another took up the words of the old familiar 
hymn. She saw tears upon many faces as 
the tender yearning of the heart thus found 
expression in words. She found herself invol- 
untarily joining in the closing stanza. 

“There, safe thou shalt abide, 

There, sweet shall be thy rest, 

And every longing satisfied, 

With full salvation blest.” 


176 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


The voices died away in silence. Then the 
pastor knelt in prayer. Margaret felt herself a 
stranger and alone as he spoke of those who 
had come there night after night for the heavenly 
blessing. All the others had sacred mutual 
memories of mercies that had been given them 
in that room. For her there was nothing ! 
The prayer was not yet finished. She caught 
a few words that might bring a blessing, even 
to her. 

“ If there are others, O Father, strangers to 
us, who have entered with us into thy presence 
here, oh may they not be strangers unto thee ! 
Hold in thy tender love every heart now before 
thee. Whatever pain, whatever remorse, what- 
ever sense of unquiet longing, whetever penitence 
that would abase itself in the dust before thee, 
these human hearts contain, is known unto thee. 
What we fail to see is clear to thy vision. O, 
Lord, thou who wiliest not that any should 
perish, be very tender unto us in our need and 
pain. Bring us, Father, every one — oh, that it 


I WILL NOT. 


177 


might be so ! — into a saving knowledge of thy 
grace.” 

Her tears were falling like rain. She heard 
the slight rustle as the worshippers raised their 
heads, then the sound of singing. But it seemed 
remote and dreamy. She was in the presence 
of a thought that held her hushed and subdued 
by its wondrous power. 

By and by she glanced toward the minister, 
a man of threescore years, his hair whitened, 
his face marked with lines that time, perchance 
many a hard experience, had graven there ; his 
voice full of a tenderness that he had caught 
from the Love which was the mainspring of his 
life. 

She judged, from allusions, that he had spoken 
to them previously of the judgments of Jehovah. 
To-night it was his love. “ Let the goodness 
of God lead you to repentance.” The goodness , 
not fear, or a wish for safety and reward, but 
“ the goodness of God.” 

“It scarcely seems fitting,” he said at last, 


178 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


“ for me to expatiate upon that goodness. 
Were I speaking to you of His followers — of 
Peter, who denied him, but whose heart well- 
nigh broke in the burst of passionate remorse 
that followed; of Paul, who counted not his 
life dear unto himself, and who joyed to walk 
through every path of suffering whither the 
Master led ; of John, whom he loved ; of 
any among them who, not alone by that last 
sacrifice of death, but by all the years while 
they were serving him, consecrated themselves 
unto their Lord — I might speak words of 
loving admiration. 

“But this other life — this coming of Christ 
into the world ; the love of God that sent 
the only-begotten Son unto sinful man — what 
can I say of these, save with trembling voice 
and prayerful heart? You who, like me, have 
learned through years of experience the ex- 
ceeding preciousness of this love, will compre- 
hend my feelings. 

“And are there others, many, who know it 


I WILL NOT. 


179 


not ? What can I say to you, dear friends, 
you who stand in such fearful danger that my 
heart yearns over you with intensest pity ? 

“ I have told you of his power ; that despite 
all our puny pride and independence, we are in 
his hands and subject to his will. I have 
tried to make you feel how fitting it is that 
the Lord Jehovah, who 'formed the worlds, in 
whom we live, and move, and have our being, 
should rule our lives. As his servant it has 
been my duty to make plain to you the whole 
truth. Now I bring you a tenderer message. 
Come with me away from the mount of judg- 
ment and of condemnation, away through years 
that held the mingled lights and shadows of 
the world’s history till the time when Calvary 
became the mount of promise to humanity ! 
Listen to the words the great Sufferer uttered 
in that hour when the sun was darkened and 
the world shrouded in blackness beneath the 
woe that voiced itself in that bitter cry 4 My 
God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me ! ’ 


180 


TO-DAYS AND YESTEKDAYS. 


In that hour He could still say of those who 
knew no pity, ‘Father, forgive them!’ He 

could make tender provision for the mother 
w T ho was to be so sorely stricken. He could 
assure the repentant criminal by his side of 

pardon and safety. And when he went up to 

the heaven which had been his home through 
all eternity, he loved the world so tenderly 
that he was willing to return to it to make 
visible and certain unto those who mourned 

the fact of his resurrection. Heaven itself 
could not make him neglect a loving-kindness. 

“ That is the way He has loved us, does 
love us. Such is the ‘goodness’ that seems 
not beautiful, but forbidding to human pride.” 

“ One word, now, for you to take to your 
homes and think upon, I trust, with prayer. 
The Lord who reigns omnipotent in earth 
and heaven loves us so well that he longs to 
win each poor, weak, sin-stained heart unto 
himself. If you fail to come to -him, it will 
be your own terrible mistake ; a mistake you 


I WILL NOT. 


181 


will deplore throughout an endless future.” 

How very still it was ! Margaret looked 
about the room as he ceased to speak. Here 
and there a face was hidden from sight. A 
little child near 'her moved somewhat rest- 
lessly. She put out her hand instinctively, in 
plea for silence. The woman who sat next 
her was weeping, her handkerchief to her eyes, 
the thin, blue-veined hand that held it trembling. 

A little further on she noticed a young 
face, not older than her own, certainly, which 
shone with a great joy. She scanned this 
girl intently. A slender, drooping figure, clad 
in simplest fashion, the utter neatness of her 
attire not concealing its poverty ; scant, close- 
cut hair and thin, meagre face. But the eyes, 
large and gray, pathetic, even now, despite 
their luminous seining, told that unto her 
tender messages had come as the blessing of a 
waiting Saviour. Margaret sighed. 

Another hymn was read. They rose to sing. 
Still with that strange sense of being in & 


182 


TO-DAYS AND YESTEEDAYS. 


dream, she stood with the others as the words 
came faintly at first. She joined them with 
her rich, strong voice. It quivered a little at 
length. 

“ Say, will ye have this Christ or no ? ” 

The solemn, decisive question. “Will ye 
have this Christ or no ? ” The last word 
prolonged itself mournfully. It rung in her 
ears like the dirge of hope. Was it to be 
such to any there ? The benediction was 
pronounced, and they rose to go. Some lin- 
gered. Mr. Whitney, the pastor, turned to go 
down the aisle toward Margaret. He had 
noticed her face, and a something in it — an 
expression she would have proudly veiled had 
she known it — appealed to his pity. She saw 
that he was coming towards her, and hastened 
out. Hurrying past the others till she was 
safely outside, she turned toward home, walk- 
ing rapidly, with decided step. It was a dull, 
sombre evening, and Margaret’s thoughts were 
hardly brighter or more cheering. 


I WILL NOT. 


183 


The words of the hymn haunted her. She 
could not get away from them. “ Say, will ye 
have this Christ or no ? ” 

Then, in some strange way, others came to 
her mind. “ Friend of sinners was his name.” 
“ Friend of sinners .” She looked up into the 
sky. It was very dark, very far away — this 
heaven whither He had gone. Could He be 
the same “ Friend of sinners,” even now ? The 
question was answered for her. 

“Now above all glory raised, 

He rejoices in the same.” 

She could not flee the words. Home at last, 
and how late it was! Ten o’clock, just as she 
reached the house ! She looked into the parlor 
for a “ good-night ” to her parents. 

“ Margaret, where have you been ? ‘ I thought 
you were in your room. Why, my child, are 
you sick ? How white you are ! ” 

The mother’s face grew anxious. 

“ No ; I’m not sick. I’ve been down the street 
to a meeting — a lecture — and I am very tired.” 


184 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


She walked around the table to where her 
father was sitting dozing comfortably in his 
arm-chair. Stooping, she kissed his forehead. 

“ Good-night, mother ! ” 

Her lips were dry, though she tried to speak 
steadily. She threw her arms around her moth- 
er’s neck, and pressed her hot cheeks to hers. 

“ Good-night, my daughter,” still looking at 
her with tender questioning. 

Margaret answered as though she had spoken. 

“ No, mother. I am quite well, but so tired : ” 
and she left the room. 

Mrs. Carrington took up her sewing. She 
looked troubled for a moment, then smiled 
contentedly. She could leave her darling in 
God’s hands. 

Margaret stepped softly into Nettie’s room. 
Perhaps, had her sister been awake, she would 
have given her her confidence — it might all 
have been different — but Nettie was sleeping 
peacefully. 

Margaret stood a moment by the bedside, 


I WILL NOT. 


185 


looking down on the rosy, unconscious face, 
with a strange depth of tenderness ; then, 
pressing her lips on the pure, white forehead, 
with a whispered “ God keep you, my little 
sister,” she sought her own room. 

Even there, to her excited fancy, the same 
words seemed pulsing through the air : “ Will 
ye have this Christ or no ? ” 

She sat down to think. 

At last came bitter words. “I cannot, oh, 
I cannot ! I do not understand it. I am not 
broken-hearted for sin. It was just because the 
others were so that I became so moved. I 
will not be a hypocrite. If we are driven to 
repentance, how much reality can there be about 
it? I cannot.” 

Then it came into her mind: 

“ Will you, not can you, but will you or 
no?” 

“ I do not feel as I ought. I am weak, 
and tired with the struggle. It don’t make 
me any better. I find no help, nothing but 


186 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


suffering. I am going back to where I was 
before. I was happier then.” 

She had laid her Testament on the table. With 
a strange feeling of longing that contradicted 
her words, she took it up and opened it. 
This was what she saw : “ The Lord is not 

slack concerning his promise . . . but is 
long suffering to us-ward, not willing that any 
should perish , but that all should come to 
repentance .” She closed the book. 

Beautiful as were the words, sweet as was 
the tender, comprehensive love that so held 
all the nations of the earth, she could not 
find comfort. Her heart grew hard and bitter 
with its pain. 

“I am not going to torture myself longer 
in this way. I wish I could forget all those 
hymns and warnings. Oh, why did I go ! ” 

“Say, will ye have this Christ or no?” 

For the last time the question was con- 
sidered, then she answered it. 

“ I will not.” Then, for the light half- 


I WILL NOT. 


18 T 


frightened her, she turned it off, and tried to 
sleep. Within and without was darkness. 

She had dared to utter the impious words 
“ I will not.” What a darkness, what a 
loneliness was left to her ! 


CHAPTER XI. 


' HOPES AND FEARS. 

T TAROLD LAWTON’S course had been 
-*• tending steadily downward since the 
evening when we witnessed his defeat, because 
he was too weak to say “No,” and abide by 
his decision. 

When he first came home, the genial, cor- 
dial manner that made him popular everywhere, 
caused him to be much sought after, and no 
entertainment was considered a success unless 
Hal Lawton had helped in the management 
thereof. 

But rumors of too grave a nature to be 
disregarded, concerning his daily walk and 
conversation, caused anxious parents to pro- 
hibit the invitations to their, houses which had 

formerly poured in upon him. 

1 83 


HOPES AND FEAES. 


189 


In fact, he was made to suffer a social 
ostracism that touched his pride to the 
quick. 

But there was one hope remaining : He was 
to go to college in a short time, and surely — 
with his pride and his sense of honor and decency 
— he would endeavor to be a gentleman there. 
There, too, he would be among entire strangers. 
The story of his disgrace would not be whispered 
about among them all, to make him reckless 
with shame. 

The parents comforted themselves with these 
thoughts, aud when, day after day, they could 
see new traces of dissipation upon their boy’s 
face, they counted the time till he should go, 
trusting much in the effect of the change. 
Little Lily, with a child’s quick perceptions, 
realized that something was wrong with her 
brother, but it never occurred to her loving little 
heart that Harold could do anything wicked. 
She ascribed all the change to some trouble or 
sickness. And Mrs. Lawton was careful to keep 


190 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


all knowledge of the real state of the case from 
the sensitive little girl. 

One night — it was the last before Harold was 
to leave them — she came home from school sob- 
bing bitterly. 

“ What ails you, my child?” questioned her 
mother, as she drew the little figure into her 
arms and tried to soothe her. 

“ O, mamma, Helen Archer has been talking 
dreadfully about brother Harold. She says” — 
sobbing still more passionately — “ that he gets 
intoxicated ! my own brother Harold ! 

“ I told her she should never, never saj^ such a 
thing to me again. But she kept laughing at 
me, and all the girls looked so strange about it. 
What made her say so, mamma? What could 
make Helen so cruel ? ” 

“ It was very unkind of her, darling, and I 
wouldn’t pay any attention to such things. She 
will be sorry when she thinks it over, that she 
said any such thing to you.” 

Lily was crying still, but less bitterly. 


HOPES AND FEAES. 


191 


“ And he is going away to-morrow. I think 
it is too bad to talk so of my dear brother.” 

“ Don’t mind it, pet,” and Harold himself 
stepped from the adjoining room, where he had 
been packing his books. “ Brother Harold doesn’t 
care at all for their nonsense, and certainly Lily 
won’t.” 

She brightened as he spoke. 

“ But, Harold, I did care terribly. What 
made them ever dare to say so?” 

He took her on his knee, and Mrs. Lawton 
resumed her sewing. She gave him one quick 
warning look. She was fearful that he might 
tell the child that which the mother wished to 
keep from her as long as possible. 

“ What could make them? Oh, a good many 
things. There are some people in the world 
who enjoy nothing as well as to slander others. 
Perhaps you praise me too much to them. If you 
do, Helen Archer might do it just to annoy you.” 

“ Well, I will never love her again ; ” very 
decidedly. 


192 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


Harold smiled an odd sort of a smile with- 
out much cheer in it. After it had faded from 
his face, an expression of contemptuous reck- 
lessness lingered there. 

His mother noted it sadly. It pained her 
that this unfortunate remark should have 
reached him on this, his last day at home. 
Now he would go away with the dreary con- 
sciousness of lost respect and ruined reputa- 
tion to discourage and harden him. 

“ Don’t care for it, my son,” she said to 
him an hour later, when Lily, soothed and 
made happy again, had gone to practise her 
music-lesson. “You will live it all down, I am 
sure. You can make them all respect you 
again.” 

“ I scarcely care to, mother,” bitterly. “ I 
am losing my old faith in people. I am a poor, 
weak fellow, at best. If it wasn’t for you, 
and my father, and the little one” — his eyes 
grew moist for a moment — “ I should give up 
trying.” 


HOPES AND FEARS. 


193 


Mrs. Lawton laid her hand tenderly on his 
head. She was a loving mother, but she had 
never learned to pray for herself or her chil- 
dren. Some such thought as this came into 
her mind now. She could not help her erring 
child by any intercession at the throne of 
Grace. But she was almost driven there in 
this new pain and perplexity. 

“Harold,” she said solemnly, “God knows 
that, dear as you are to me, 1 would rather 
see you laid by my dead brother’s side in 
yonder churchyard, than to see you become 
the wreck that intemperance made him. If 
you go on in this way, you will ruin your 
own happiness ; you will make your father an 
old man before his time, and your mother ” — 
she tried to speak steadily — “ oh, my child, 
my first-born ! your mother cannot forget when 
she first held you, a little innocent baby, in 
her arms. It would have broken her heart 
then to know that you would grow up to a 
dishonored manhood. O, Harold, for your own 


194 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS.- 


sake, and for ours, be true to yourself.” 

He was deeply moved. He acknowledged all 
his weakness and sin. He made many a prom- 
ise for the coming year. He would be sur- 
passed by none in the purity of his life. 
And looking into his face as he spoke thus, 
the mother was comforted. 

Mr. Lawton was less sanguine. A man of 
the world, familiar in his profession with every 
phase of sin and failure, he knew how easy 
it was to tread the downward path when once 
it had been entered. And he understood 
Harold’s nature so well ! Still he would not 
despair. Perhaps the boy might be saved 
without keener suffering. 

It was when Harold was at the lowest, that 
Allan Grantley’s anniversary letter reached him. 
He carried it about with him for two or three 
days unopened. 

At last, one night, suddenly remembering it, 
he read it and began answering it. After sev- 
eral attempts he gave it up in despair. He 


HOPES AND FEARS. 


195 


wouldn’t pain Allan by telling him the truth, 
and he couldn’t quite ignore the facts if he 
wrote at all. Furthermore, so entirely had a 
single year changed him, he took very little 
interest in writing. 

“A1 is a good fellow, but he’s awfully strait- 
laced,” he said confidentially, an hour or two 
later, to Will Bralton as they sat together on 
the hotel piazza, smoking. “ I don’t think I could 
get on with him now as well as I used to.” 

“Probably not,” with a covert sneer. “A 
minister, is he ? ” 

“ Oh, no. And I guess he won’t be. He’s 
pious enough for it, but lacks the funds. I’m 
rather glad of it, for he’s too good for his 
own comfort as it is. I should pity him if he 
entered the ministry.” 

His companion laughed coarsely. “ Better ask 
him down here for a while, Hal. We’d soon 
take the extra goodness out of him.” 

Harold wasn’t so sure of that, but he didn’t 
say anything to the contrary. It might have 


196 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


touched him a little had he known of the 
patient and undoubting faith with which his 
friend waited for his letter. 

At last, after many weeks of silence, Allan 
wrote again. Just a note of inquiry. 

It came to him just a little after Lily’s piteous 
question, “What makes them talk so about my 
brother ? ” 

It found Harold in a very tender mood. 

“ I’ll answer that, my good friend,” he 
soliloquized, as he refolded it. “ You are worth 
all these new fellows. I ought to be ashamed 
of dropping you as I did. But I’ll make up 
for it after this.” 

The next day he left home, and in the ex- 
citement and novelty of his new position, forgot 
the note for days. A week after he was domiciled 
in his rooms in the college grounds, he began a 
reply. He was interrupted by callers. He was 
already popular, and to-day he threw aside his 
pen with ready cordiality to entertain the young 
men who had sought him. The next morning 


HOPES AND FEARS. 


197 


he used the half-finished note to light his cigar, 
and all thought of his friend seemed to vanish 
amid the wreaths of smoke that he idly 
watched as they rose in the air. 

Allan, discouraged, did not write again. At 
rare intervals he heard some chance mention of 
Harold. Such allusions were always of a nature 
to pain him. Hints of his popularity among 
the most dissipated of the students: of his reck- 
less expenditure ; of his low standing in his 
class ; all showed that he was again in evil 
courses, and going down rapidly. 

“If I could help him,” Allan said to his 
mother one day, just after hearing some such 
report as this, “I wouldn’t value any effort. 
Dear Hal ! he is too good to be lost in this way.” 

“ Why don’t you write to him again ? ” 

“ I think I will. But he never answers me 
of late.” 

Still, the attempt was made. The letter was 
as fruitless as its predecessors. 

Mr. Lawton received discouraging accounts 


198 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


from the College President. He spoke highly 
of Harold’s intellectual ability, and his gen- 
erous impulsive kindness of heart. But he 
was so prone to follow others into evil ! The 
gentleman confessed that he entertained grave 
doubts of his remaining there during the year 
with either credit or benefit to himself. 

Mr. Lawton did not show these letters to 
his wife, but to his son he wrote plainly. 

“ If I hear of your going wrong again I 
shall have you come home,” he wrote at 
length. “ It has been my ambition to see you 
a useful, honored member of society; with 
what mad infatuation you are thwarting 
all my wishes ! I am disappointed in you, 
my son.” This warning, by some accident, 
never reached Harold. 

He wrote as carefully as possible to his 
parents. He was fast learning concealment, 
and they would not have inferred, from his 
letters, that dissipation, and not study, was 
the business of his days. 


CHAPTER XII. 


AT LAST. 

"TV /|"R. WARREN sat in his study busy 
•*■*“*■ upon a sermon, when a gentle knock 
at the door attracted his attention. He rose 
to admit the caller. 

“ Why, Bertie, my child ! I am very glad 
to see you.” He grasped her hand warmly. 

“You see I avail myself of your invitation 
to come. You call on us so seldom, and I 
have missed you so.” 

He had placed a chair for her in the warm 
corner by the open grate, glancing at her 
with some anxiety meanwhile ; for it was the 
opinion of many among her friends that 
Bertie was very delicate since her fearful 
sickness, and the minister had more than once 


199 


200 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


heard it hinted that she would never regain 
her old strength. 

But her face was very bright, almost rosy 
to-day. And there was such a restful expres- 
sion in her eyes as it gave him joy to 
behold. 

“ And how does the cold weather affect you, 
Bertie ? I have thought of you many times 
when the rest of us have been so chilled by 
these frosty winds; and Mrs. Warren has been 
very solicitous about your welfare.” 

“ Oh, I am gaining every day. I am so well 
now. Why, it seems just like old times, when 
I was always strong ! ” 

“ That is good news. Then I suppose very 
soon we shall hear of your flitting away to 
some of the absent friends. Isn’t that your 
intention? ” 

“ Yes. In a few weeks I am going to 
Pennsylvania to visit an old school-friend, Miss 
Carrington.” 

“Carrington! I think you have never named 


AT LAST. 


201 


her to me. Is she as pleasing as Miss 
Carrol ? ” 

Bertie hesitated. 

“ She is very different from Louise. Perhaps 
she would not impress a stranger as favorably, 
but she is a noble girl. I don’t know, really. 
I love them both so much that I am not 
prepared to pass judgment upon either.” 

“ I think Miss Carrol a girl of unusual 
strength of character. I rarely see in one so 
young so many indications of power.” 

“ Well, I just begun to find that out when 
she was here. At school, we loved Louise for 
being so sunny and winning; but I have been 
learning since that she is more substantial than 
I used to think. 

“ She is at work bravely this year, trying, 
I gleaned from some chance words, to 
send her younger sister to school. ' Her father 
is not able to help them much, and Louise 
tiies to do her best for the family. It must 
be a hard life for her, mirthful as she is. 


202 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


And that first made me think that perhaps she 
didn’t always show the best part of her nature. 
So I followed my clue till I found out many 
things which surprised me. 

“I believe she is thoroughly in earnest. I 
picture for her a noble, # energetic Christian 
life. She would be a true laborer in the Lord’s 
vinej^ard if. she but consecrated herself to his 
service. And I am very confident, from some 
things I heard her say, that she is already 
nearer the kingdom than she dreams.” 

Bertie’s fingers were interlacing nervously. 
At any other time she would have been happy 
to hear such words spoken of her friend. But 
to-day she came for something else. Couldn’t 
her pastor see that she had an errand? 

Perhaps he was more discerning than she 
thought. At all events, he ceased speaking at 
length, and left her to break the silence. 

“Mr. Warren,” she began, a little tremu- 
lously, “you left me to myself, you know. 
But you said if I wished to come here, you 


AT LAST. 


203 


would be glad to see me. It has been a good 
while since then. And now I believe — I am 
quite sure — that I have good news to tell 
you.” 

She looked so like her mother as she spoke, 
Mr. Warren’s thoughts went back a score of 
years, then returned to the present with a 
thrill of joy that, in the love and mercy of 
our Lord, there are no times or seasons save 
a blessed, never-ending now. 

So absorbed was he with the thought that 
he made no reply to her words; and she went 
on. 

“ I felt discouraged many times after that 
day. To tell the truth, I almost blamed you, 
now and then, for leaving me so to myself. 
I didn’t want to trouble papa, as I knew it 
would trouble him, so I groped my way alone 
in the dark. I felt, after awhile, as if I must 
get into the daylight again, and I just prayed 
my way out. I have been so happy of late. 
Christ seems so near, and so very dear to me.” 


204 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


Her cheeks were flushed. She paused, wait- 
ing for words of comprehension and sympathy. 

“ Bertie,” her pastor said at length, “ do you 
know what you have done for me ? I was 
writing a Thanksgiving sermon when you came 
in. I had been reviewing the past year in my 
mind, and was feeling a little discouraged that 
in many respects the harvest was so scanty. 
But, my child, your words have just filled my 
heart with thanksgiving. I can write the grate- 
ful thoughts now.” 

“I knew you would be glad. I haven’t told 
any one else, except papa.” 

“ Glad , Bertie ! If you knew how my heart 
ached for you during that long sickness, and 
afterward when I feared you were blind to the 
lesson of . it, you would understand how glad. 
If I have said less to you, it has been from no 
lack of interest.” 

“ No, sir ; I never really thought that. I 
knew you had prayed very faithfully for me. 
Since I have learned to pray in earnest for my- 


AT LAST. 


205 


self, I have known more how much you were 
doing.” 

“ A Christian, Bertie ! a Christian ! Dear child, 
you have claimed the dearest name, the best 
title the earth holds. I am at rest about you. 
You won’t find it all easy work, even now; 
but there will always be encouragement here- 
after, even in your failures. Don’t lose the first 
freshness of your Christian love. Keep very 
near to Christ, and you will be led and com- 
forted.” 

“ I will try ; ” very softly. 

“ How different this is from our last talk on 
this subject. It rebukes me, Bertie, for my 
want of faith. I might have known that prayers 
so earnestly uttered by dying lips for you, the 
child so soon to be left motherless, would be 
answered.” 

“Do you know,” Bertie made answer, “that 
of late I have thought more about my mother 
than ever before? She seems nearer to me.” 

“ Yea, verily, — 


206 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


‘ One family we dwell in Him, 

One church, above, beneath, 

But now divided by the stream, 

The narrow stream of death.’ 

M It grows very narrow, Bertie, when we 
realize that whether on one side or the other, 
we are His. I can understand the change in 
your feelings. Your mother’s Lord is yours too. 
You are sure that when a few short years 
are past you can see her in that blissful home 
whither she has preceded you — your dear young 
mother ! She was no older than you are now, 
and she was so willing to go.” 

Their talk drifted into tender words of her. 
Bertie listened eagerly to all Mr. Warren had 
to say, for at home her mother’s name was 
rarely spoken. Mr. Arnold never mentioned 
her, even to his child. So awful had been the 
break in his life when she went out of it, so 
strong still was his sense of loss and desola- 
tion, that he kept all memory of her down in 
the depths wherein only silence reigneth. 

But Bertie resolved very tenderly, that in the 


AT LAST. 


207 


strength of her new hope she would venture 
to speak to him of their lost one. She felt 
that the time had come when she should hear 
of her. She was not willing to feel so igno- 
rant of the parent who was waiting for her in 
the new home. 

After she had gone, Mr. Warren resumed his 
writing. He seemed inspired with glowing 
thoughts, and the sermon preached a few days 
later to a large congregation, brought the quick 
tears to many eyes. Coming straight from his 
own heart, warmed and kindled as it was by 
the joy of Bertie’s story, it went to theirs, 
quickening the fires of Christian thankfulness 
and patient faith in many a heart where they 
had seemed almost dormant. 

In a short time Bertie was able to make 
the long-contemplated visit to Wilton. 

“My darling,” you are sweeter than ever,” 
Margaret exclaimed rapturously as she greeted 
her. 

She laughed a little at the childish curls, 


208 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


and then her face grew sober, remembering 
when they were shortened and why. 

We must not stop for any details of the 
visit, which lasted till the middle of January, 
and then, true to her promise, Margaret accom- 
panied her friend home. 

Bertie won golden opinions from Nettie Car- 
rington, who declared in confidence to her 
mother, that she had “just the most beautiful 
face ” she ever saw. J ust such a face as realized 
her idea of the Madonna. 

Mrs. Carrington was hardly disposed to check 
her child’s enthusiasm, for she too noticed the 
unwonted purity of Bertie’s countenance, and 
was not unconscious of the beauty of her daily 
life. She saw with what care she watched over 
all her words and actions; how vigilantly she 
guarded against evil speaking, or harsh, unchari- 
table words that could give pain to others ; 
how constantly careful she was to avoid any- 
thing irreverent or heartless; and she honored 
the young girl for the consistent Christian 


AT LAST. 


209 


principle which already began to show itself as 
the ruling power of her life. 

Dr. Carrington was pleased with her also, 
but, contrasting the two, he found no occasion 
to be dissatisfied with Margaret. He was always 
proud and happy when he realized how richly 
stored was her mind. And he admired the 
haughty manner that ofttimes led him to address 
her as Queen Margaret. 

As to Margaret herself, she was not one 
whit disappointed in this renewal of old 
friendship. She found Bertie just as entirely 
suited to her taste as ever. But, from many 
things, she knew that however perfect their 
mutual love might be, there was a gulf 
between them. 

She realized it, when, having sought their 
room at night, Bertie would open her little 
Bible and read such a long time, with that 
rapt, happy expression upon her face ; when 
she would kneel in prayer, and rise afterward 
with moist eyes, but a still brighter smile. 


210 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


After that, no matter how tenderly her 
friend’s arm was clasped about her neck, 
Margaret felt that she was so far from her! 
She would go to sleep heavy-hearted. 

Of Bertie’s impressions of her old-time school- 
mate we can find the best record in one of 
her letters to her father. 

“ You wish to know,” she wrote, “ whether 
I am disappointed in Margaret, upon seeing 
her after more than a year’s absence. I think 
I am not. She is as dear to me as ever : 
as much my admiration as when I saw her 
last. 

“I love them all. They are making me 
very happy here ; and I can easily see where 
Margaret gets her pure ideas of life and her 
generous sympathies. Her mother is one of 
the noblest women I ever met. In her I 
recognize many of the same traits that won 
my heart in the daughter. 

“ But, papa, sometimes I feel that no friend- 
ship can be taken up just exactly as we left 


AT LAST. 


211 


it. That, probably, is natural and to be 
expected. I know that ours, in all respects, 
is not what it was eighteen months ago. But 
I am persuaded that we can make it an 
infinitely richer, stronger and more beautiful 
one. 

“Sometimes I think Margaret has changed 
a good deal. Then I remember that I, no 
doubt, seem different to her also. We love 
each other dearly, but, papa — I would say this 
to no one but yourself — strong and self-reliant 
as she is, it comes to me sometimes with the 
force of certainty that Margaret has been 
through some bitter struggle, some hard con- 
flict, and has been defeated.” 

The two girls spent nearly all of the winter 
together. When, toward spring, Margaret bade 
her friend good-by “for a few months,” as 
she said smilingly, neither of them dreamed 
that they might not meet again till it should 
be written years instead. 

Bertie commenced her active Christian life 


212 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


in earnest now. With renewed health and 
added experience she was ready to prove her 
faith by works and words. Her father watched 
her from day to day with an element of rev- 
erence mingling, more and more, with his 
love. 

She had been received into the Church, and 
now, in the Sunday-school, and in every good 
enterprise, she found congenial employment. 

Late in the spring she received a letter 
from her cousin Mabel, who lived near Harold 
Lawton. 

“Do you know, Bertie,” she asked, “how 
shockingly your old classmate is behaving? I 
think it’s perfectly scandalous. I used to think 
Hal was just splendid ; but now I am almost 
ashamed to be seen speaking to him. He has 
been suspended from college, but I guess he 
might as well have been expelled, for he is 
too dissipated to be allowed to remain, even 
if he returns.” 

The letter contained other items of interest, 


AT LAST. 


213 


but this touched Bertie too deeply for her to 
enjoy any of the comical paragraphs that fol- 
lowed. 

Was Harold sinking so low? She didn’t 
forget him after that in a single nightly prayer. 
It was all she could do for him ; and she 
was faithful in this. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

GOING TO BATTLE. 

IT was April. Tlie sun began to shine warmly 
in at the windows of the farmhouse among 
the hills. Allan was ready to begin another 
summer’s work. He had been engaged in 
teaching during the winter, and had been so 
fortunate as to secure the assistance of the 
village pastor in pursuing his own studies. 

It seemed to him all the time that he was 
just to make the most of his present life 
with its limited opportunities, and then be 
ready for something higher when it came. 

This morning he felt unusually happy. Some- 
thing of the freshness seemed to enter his heart. 
His mother, sitting at the window, heard him 
singing at his work. 


214 


GOING TO BATTLE. 


215 


Little Charlie Deane, on his way home from 
the post-office, stopped to leave their letters. 
Mrs. Grantley laid down her knitting as he 
came in. 

“ Thank you, Charlie. I’ve been hoping to 
get the papers this morning.” She glanced down 
the columns, reading a few lines here and there 
— local items, more or less interesting. Her eyes 
rested at length on the words “ War News.” 
“ Good news, I hope,” she thought as she began 
to read. 

Five minutes later she glanced up from the 
paper. 

How very cosy and pleasant the kitchen looked ! 
The old clock ticked in its slow, monotonous 
fashion ; pussy was asleep upon the hearth ; 
Allan’s books piled upon the desk in the corner 
suggesting the quiet evening hour when she could 
watch his curly head bending over them; the 
flower-stand — it had been hard work to preserve 
its treasures during the severe winter — begin- 
ning to look greenly beautiful as the leaves and 


216 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


hints of blossoms grew apace. That, too, was 
one of Allan’s fancies. 

She saw him at work in the yard, making a 
trellis for her pet rose-bush, mindful of a chance 
word she had given utterance to a few days 
before. 

Everywhere she could see some proof of the 
tender thoughtfulness that never foiled her. 
But, was she sinning, day after day, in keep- 
ing him here? She knew that he so yearned 
to go. He had told her in their long talks 
months ago how gladly he would join the army, 
save for her. And she had begged him to stay. 
She leaned her head against the window-sill and 
thought of it. 

Another terrible defeat. Precious lives given 
freely, generously. Young hopes quenched, and 
loving hearts at home darkened with sorrow. 
And she was unscathed. Her offering had been 
withheld as too costly, too dear to be given. 
Now, more men were called for. Was not her 
duty plain? Too long, already, had she weakly 


GOING TO BATTLE. 


217 


clung to her boy. She would no longer stand 
in his way. lie should trace his honorable record 
as his father would have done. 

What if the pleasant home room did lose its 
sunshine ? She must be strong to endure. She 
went to the door. 

“Allan, come here a moment!” She did 
not know how pale her face showed, standing 
there in the sunshine. But he noticed it, 
and hastened a little therefor. 

“ What is it, little mother ? ” as he stepped 
upon the porch. 

“You know Pickering wants to take the 
farm this year as he used to. Have you any 
thoughts about letting him come?” She, watch- 
ing his face furtively, noticed the momentary 
eager flush that died away again into a look 
of unusual gravity. 

“No; not really. I have thought about it, 
certainly. But, considering all things, I have 
decided not to employ him.” 

“Well, Allan,” she had intended to say it 


218 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


very calmly, but the tears came unbidden, 
“ there are more men needed in the service, 
I find by the morning paper. And I’ve been 
thinking that if you wish to go as much as 
ever, I — am — willing.” 

“ O, mother ! ” Both glanced involuntarily 
toward the South. Far as the eye could 
reach, so calm was all the landscape, so fair 
the blue sky overhead, it seemed but the 
visible expression of peace. It seemed strange 
that so many were going out into the spring 
beauty and warmth of verdure to find naught 
but graves. 

Allan drew a long, deep breath. “ Why, 
mother, it’s the greatest wish I’ve cherished 
for a whole year ! And to think that you 
are willing ! ” They didn’t say much about it. 
Neither felt like doing so. 

But that day Allan rode away to the 
village and made the first necessary arrange- 
ments. 

“I am going to get up a company, mother,” 


GOING TO BATTLE. 


219 


he said that night, after he came home. “Do 
you know how different it all seems to me 
now ? I shall not be afraid to look in the 
papers any more. I have not wanted to know 
much about it of late, feeling that I was an 
idler outside the ranks.” 

There was much to be done in the few 
weeks that elapsed before his going. He made 
all possible arrangements for his mother’s com- 
fort; and she, deep as was the tender sad- 
ness that mingled with all her preparations, 
was not without comfort. The compensation 
came even amidst the first lonely pain. She 
was not standing between her boy and his 
duty. 

It came at last — all too soon — and he was 
gone. She could but sit down in her great 
loneliness and pray for him. 

But frequent and cheering came his letters. 
And when she had read and re-read them, 
there were generally kindly messages to be 
conveyed to other mothers, wives, or sisters, 


220 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


who had loved ones in his company. At first, 
only words of remembrance and good cheer. 
But by and by, as he went into the thickest 
of the struggle, and stood in the ranks before 
the terrible battle-fires, she had other work to 
do. It was her part to go into many a home 
to explain the sad tidings that were so cruelly 
brief in the daily papers ; her privilege to add 
to the one printed word ‘'Killed” the story of 
a willing departure, and to gild the darkness 
with the few rays of hope that would never 
cease to be cherished. 

The young captain whom all his soldiers 
loved, received — ah, how often ! — the last 
words for home-friends from lips that grew cold 
and speechless even with their utterance. 

Many a little keepsake, guarding a story 
known, it may be, unto but two hearts, was 
entrusted to him to be returned with dying 
words of love to the giver. 

And Allan, faithfully attending to all these 
sacred trusts, came, at length, to speak often 


GOING TO BATTLE. 


221 


in his letters to his mother of the possibility 
of his going too. 

“ Whatever happens, I want you to know,” 
he said in one of his letters, “that I have 
often thought I might be appointed unto death. 
And, my dear mother, should I be taken sud- 
denly, and no good-by words could ever come 
to you, remember that you need none to 
assure you that your boy remembered you most 
and always.” 

She shed many a tear over such words as 
these, but was mindful, too, of her exceeding 
cause for thankfulness. It mattered not how 
sudden the call, or how obscure the unknown 
Southern grave that might be his, her son 
would know no other fate than, dying, to 
sleep in Jesus. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE PARTING. 

"]\ yr Y wife, oh, why did you not tell me 
■*“*-*■ sooner!” Dr. Carrington’s strong frame 
quivered with the agony he was striving, for 
her sake, to repress. 

“I did not wish to alarm you needlessly. 
When the suspicion first came to me that my 
late weariness and languor were but symptoms 
of a disease for which there was no cure, my 
whole soul cried out against it. I could not 
leave you and my children ! 

“ This was during the week you were at the 
West. Had you been at home, I must have told 
you then. When I grew a little calmer, I 
shut myself in the office for one entire day, and 
studied concerning this disease. Then I was sure . 


222 


THE PARTING. 


223 


“I would not tell you any reason for my 
staying so much in my room, lest your sus- 
picions should be aroused; and 1 wanted to 
conquer myself first, and then I could com- 
fort you.” 

During the ensuing hour, Dr. Carrington kept 
down all feeling as best he could, and tried 
to be only the clear-minded physician. 

When all his questions had been answered, 
he, too, was sure . Words of mine would fail 
to express the husband’s agony of despair, but 
the habit of over twenty years was strong 
enough to lend him control even now. 

His wife’s comfort had always been his first 
consideration. Now, he determinately talked on 
about her present welfare ; was even fastidious 
about the position of the curtain, lest a ray of 
sunlight should fall across her eyes ; asked her 
what books he should bring her, and finally 
kissed her and went away, as he had done 
every morning for so many years. 

O, God! there would be weeks enough to 


224 


TO-DAYS AJND YESTERDAYS. 


dwell upon his suffering when he could do 
nothing for her. Now, he would forget himself 
in so far as it was possible, and minister to 
the sweet sodl whose days on earth were 
numbered. 

How many times during their married life 
they had talked of this beautiful “ new home ” 
of which their loving earth-home seemed so 
fitting a symbol. They had not feared the 
transition from one to the other, but in all their 
imaginings they had been together. Surely, it 
had never occurred to either of them that she 
would be called to leave him. He had many 
times thought pityingly of her loneliness when 
his busy life should -wear itself out, and she 
be left a widow. But that she, with her still 
youthful face and girlish freshness, should be 
the one to go ! It was strange, strange ! 

He guarded all his words. She didn't know 
how he yearned to clasp her in his arms, and 
give vent in bitter weeping to the agony at 
his heart. He talked to her very tenderly, 


THE PARTING. 


225 


but hopefully, and then left her, calling 
Margaret to sit with her. 

The young girl, unused to sickness as she 
was, saw nothing unusual in her mother’s face. 

It was a peaceful day for them at home. 
The doctor was absent from dinner, but that 
was no unusual thing, and the girls didn’t 
know that he had tasted nothing, when, his 
daily calls ended, after another brief visit to 
his wife’s room, he went out for a ride. 

He came home just at dusk, having decided 
but one thing in all that confused rush of feeling: 
he must tell his children of their mother’s 
danger, and prepare them to be very calm when 
in her presence. 

He could not do it that night. He tried 
to, but it seemed too cruel. How could he 
look into those young smiling faces turned 
toward him, and smite all the brightness out 
of them ? Then their mother seemed so com- 
fortable ! 

She had come down into the sitting-room, 


226 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


and he found her lying upon the lounge, the 
light of the sunset upon her, and all the 
wonted gladness in her voice. 

He was even gentler than common to Nettie 
that night. “ Poor children ! they shall have 
this one happy evening. To-morrow I must 
tell them,” he thought. 

And to-morrow he did tell them. His own 
grief was old to him now, so long seemed 
the twenty-four hours that had passed since 
that talk with his wife, and he could speak 
more calmly. 

He was prepared for Nettie’s passionate sobs, 
and Margaret’s one anguished exclamation. 
He didn’t forget that he, their father, must 
try to help and strengthen them. And the 
first relief for his own heavy pain came when 
he strove to show to them the comfort which 
even this grief surely held. 

After that the time was very brief. A few 
weeks, a few anxious days, then the end. 

These few words told the story. But how 


THE PABTIiTG. 


227 


much those weeks held ! The “ anxious days ” 
— do any of you know what they mean? 

And “ the end,” which, after all, is not an 
end, but a beginning; I cannot say much of 
that. It came, and they endured. 

During that time, the mother had a few 
precious talks with her children. Little Nettie, 
after the first burst of feeling, seemed to find 
peace and strength. She didn’t try to forget 
the grief, that was real and heavy, but the 
Saviour helped her bear it. 

Mrs. Carrington saw gladly that her little 
girl was being helped. 

Margaret took the sorrow differently. 

“ Can’t you be willing, my daughter ? ” her 
mother said to her one day, at the close of 
an hour’s earnest conversation. And the an- 
swer that saddened her was, “Mother, you 
are dearer to me than any one else in all 
the world. Would to God that I could go 
with you ! But when I think of your leav- 
ing me here, it is all darkness and despair.” 


228 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


The days were, for the most part, free from 
suffering. Dr. Carrington often found his wife 
with a book in her hands, occasionally with 
paper and pencil, though these she laid aside 
when she heard him coming, and a fresh look 
upon her face that would almost have made 
him hope, only that he knew . 

When the death-angel came, it was, as ever, 
at the hour when least expected. She had 
seemed unwontedly strong during the day, 
talking to Margaret and Nettie of the things 
that seemed of most interest to them, giving 
them little hints of advice, which afterward 
they would remember, and joining, with almost 
her own strength, in one or two hymns that 
the girls sang just before sunset when they were 
waiting supper for their father to come home. 
None of them would ever forget just how she 
looked at the table that night. 

Margaret had woven a few early rose-buds 
in her hair. These, with the fleecy white shawl 
she wore, gave her the look of having come 


THE PARTING. 


229 


into the summer. And so she had; a warmer, 
more beautiful summer than they were to see. 
Her husband helped her into the parlor after 
supper, and, as she leaned back in her chair, 
kissed her lips fondly, the shadow seeming, 
for the moment, to lighten and rise from his 
heart. 

Ten minutes later he was recalled to the 
room by the one word “ Father ! ” in a voice 
he scarcely recognized as Margaret’s. He went 
in, to find his children sobbing in uncontrolla- 
ble anguish, and to see, on the face which 
had embodied his life’s sunshine, a strange, 
new smile. 

She had caught the angelic welcome before 
she passed away. 

Very sudden, very quiet, had been the de- 
parture. Perhaps she herself scarcely knew she 
was dying till she woke to the bliss of 
heaven. 

Nettie, coming into the room, had spoken to 
her, and receiving no answer, had gone to her 


230 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


and taken her hand. The icy coldness of it 
told her the bitter truth. 

Days later they found in her writing-desk 
letters addressed to each of them. The loving 
heart knew that there might be no time for any 
spoken good-bys, so she had pencilled tender, 
farewell words to them all. 

The contents of her husband’s letter no one 
but himself ever knew. 

Little Nettie read hers with mingled sobs and 
smiles. 

Margaret’s we will give, in part: 

“ Upon you, my daughter, this blow will fall very heavily. 
I want you to know, darling, that there will be no hitter 
thought, no anguished hour when life will seem almost 
too lonely too endure, that your mother did not think of 
and comprehend. Perhaps I may be permitted to help you. 
That is as God wills. But now, while I can, I will say a 
few words that must comfort you every time you read them. 
I am willing to go. That is worth so much. This life, dear, 
is but the merest beginning; as brief and crude compared 
to the one upon which I am so soon to enter, as the alphabet 
is to the whole broad range of literature. Do not grieve, 
Margaret, that I am going on from this simple page to 


THE PARTING. 


231 


nobler reading. The years before my dear ones c&n come 
to me will be very brief. Your father will grieve very 
bitterly, but be has the best comfort; after a little he 
will remember to lean on that. And Nettie’s faith will help 
her. For you, my darling, whose warm, loving heart has 
leaned only upon earthly stays, I feel the deepest pity. God 
grant that you may learn, in loving the memory of your 
mother, to worship the Master who has called her. 
Margaret, when you read these words, let them come to 
you as my last wish. Seek the Saviour. He will love you 
even better than your mother does. He will help you shape 
this passionate, wayward life of yours into beauty and holi- 
ness. You have been a very precious child to me. In no 
filial duty have you been remiss, but always, in all things, 
one of my best blessings. And as I write these words, I 
feel as if the angels whispered it — a sweet assurance that 
my child will come soon into the knowledge of Christ’s saving 
love.” 

How strangely came back to the reader’s mind 
those other words of her mother’s, uttered 
„ almost a year ago. “ If you cry out against 

the emptiness of your life, blame Him not if He 
fills it in His own way.” 

She had thus “ cried out ; ” she had rejected 
Him, and now He had indeed taken away from 
her that to which she most clung, and she must 
learn to walk alone. 


232 


TO-DAYS AND YESTEEDAYS. 


What prosperity had failed to do, this grief 
and the heartbreak of it accomplished. After 
the first rebellious bitterness of her pain had 
passed away, Margaret began to turn her thoughts 
to the heaven which held her mother, and the 
Lord who had taken her unto Himself. 

And when, as in the lengthening summer 
twilight she sought that precious grave, and 
laid her fresh flowers upon it, she could say at 
last, “ Even though He slay me, yet will I trust 
in Him.” 

In Margaret’s blank-book, under this same 
date, was copied the following poem : 

“ Arise, and seek some height to gain 
From life’s dark lesson day by day, 

Nor just rehearse its peace and pain — 

A wearied actor at the play. 

“Nor grieve that will so much transcends 
Thy feeble powers, but in content 

Do what thou canst, and leave the ends 
And issues with the Omnipotent. 

“Arise, my friend, and go about 
Thy darkened house with cheerful feet; 


THE PARTING. 


Yield not one jot to fear nor doubt, 

But, baffled, broken, still repeat: 

“’Tis mine to work, and not to win; 

The soul must wait to have her wings 
Even time is but a landmark in 
The great eternity of things. 

* ‘Is it so much that thou below, 

O heart, shouldst fail of thy desire, 
When death, as we believe and know, 

Is but a call to come up higher.” 


CHAPTER XV. 


COMING INTO THE CHURCH. 

I T was the first Sabbath in July. 

Upon that day the church of which Dr. 
Carrington and Nettie were members, was to 
celebrate the Saviour’s dying love. 

Upon that day, also, Margaret was to unite 
herself with the people of God by those solemn 
tender vows that neither life nor death can 
annul. 

She had learned to love her Saviour, and in 
the strong light which this new feeling cast 
upon her life, she remembered all the olden 
bitterness and rebellion. She saw how she had 
been led through sunlight and down pleasant 
slopes to find Him at last amid the shadows. 
Now she was willing, nay, eager, to make 
234 


COMING INTO THE CHURCH. 


235 


public profession of her new faith. She longed 
now to show herself unto the world as His 
disciple. 

She sat in her own room, this bright — to her 
— twice-hallowed Sabbath morning. It lacked 
an hour yet of time for service, and she had 
come up here for quiet thought and reading. 
She sat now with her Bible in her hand, but 
with eyes wandering over the distant hills. 
Their grandeur suited her to-day. 

This one day would stand out in memory, 
clear and well-defined ; raised above all the ordi- 
nary days that followed or preceded it, as the 
one on which she gave herself, all that she 
was or .might become, to Him who had loved 
her and given himself for her. 

“ Or might become ! ” This was the thought 
about which Margaret’s heart busied itself. 
Enough of sin, of wrong, of bitterness had 
there been in the old life ! But, behold , all 
things are new. And in this new life, with its 
new desires, hopes and purposes, and, above 


236 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


all, the Help that she had only newly accepted, 
what might she not become? 

Ambitious, Margaret would always be. But 
this was an ambition that longed to attain, 
only that all might be laid at the feet of Christ. 

There was no hesitation; no thought of the 
people around her as she left her father and 
Nettie to join those who were to be received into 
the church. 

The earnest, intent eyes never wavered in 
their steadfast gaze, any more than her thoughts 
wandered from the words that were being 
spoken. She might have been a queen bowing 
her head to receive her crown, so lifted above 
all common concerns did she seem. And, indeed, 
why not ? Child of God ! daughter of the King ! 
is she not crowned, emblematic of an inheri- 
tance that this world can neither give nor take 
away . 

A moment she lingered after the prayer, her 
head bowed The sunlight stole in softly through 
the thick-leaved trees, and lay, in tender bene- 


COMING INTO THE CHURCH. 


237 


diction, on the brown hair ,and pure womanly 
forehead. 

It was a scene to be carried in her father’s 
heart through all the coming years. His beautiful, 
beloved daughter ! That she had always been, 
but to-day she seemed even more than that. 
Now, she was the disciple of his Lord, his own 
home companion in all good work and brave 
endeavor. He felt less cruelly alone, as she came 
back to him, than in the past dreary weeks. 

Margaret looked out through the open window 
toward the shaded hill near the church where 
lay the garden of their dead. Her eyes rested 
on a slender marble cross, gleaming whitely in 
the distance, till gradually it faded from her dim- 
ming vision. One thought had been present 
with her all the morning : 

“ My blessed mother ! does she know that her 
child has come home at last ? ” The tender 
thought seemed like the echo of heavenly music. 

A hymn was given out and sung, the organ 


288 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


giving it solemn undertone of praise. She bowed 
her head and listened. 

“ Nearer, my God to tliee, 

Nearer to thee, 

. E’en though it be a cross 
That raiseth me.” 

That should be her daily prayer. Nearer to 
Him through whatever of suffering, or loss, or 
discouragement He chose to send.. She realized 
that she stood to-day upon a mountain-summit 
of Christian exaltation, and that the valleys of 
humiliation and despondency might yet have to 
be travelled, but she could look upward with 
entire faith, and say : 

“ I know not the way I am going, 

But well do I know my Guide.” 

Standing again in her room, after the quiet 
walk home, Margaret spoke slowly and deliber- 
ately. 

“ Once, in this same room, I said ‘ I will not ! ’ 
To-day I say it again, but with a world-wide 
difference in meaning. God helping me, I will 


COMING INTO THE CHUECH. 


289 


not let this first Christian joy grow dim ; this 
first consecration be dishonored in my payment 
of the vow. I am no longer my own. I have 
been ‘bought with a price,’ and such a price.” 

“ O Christ, I promise all this, but Thou, only 
Thou canst help me to perform. Thine I am, 
wilt not Thou undertake for me, that when heart 
shall falter and strength utterly fail, I may yet 
realize that thy strength can be made perfect 
even in my weakness ? ” 

I think Margaret’s mother will fear no more 
for the child who is in such safe keeping. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


WHAT THE FLOWERS SAID. 


OUISE CARROL had entered upon her 



second year in the Seminary. Her days, 
since she went back from that pleasant rest 
at Lanesville, had been, almost without excep- 
tion, busy ones. Hard at work in school for 
five days, she often sighed wearily on Satur- 
day morning, in a vain longing for just that 
one day in which to please herself. 

But duty seemed to point another way. 
She was working energetically to enable Bessie 
to attend school at Merrivale, and it seemed 
that this summer her wishes would be fulfilled. 

She was still using her knowledge of music 
as a help. And her Saturdays were given 
wholly to her scholars. 


240 


WHAT THE FLO WEES SAID. 


241 


Lousie had, perhaps, changed more since 
her school-days than either of her friends 
in personal appearance, at least. The olden 
merry insouciance of her manner seemed 
merged in quiet dignity ; the brown eyes 
showed a more earnest expression ; the roses 
upon her cheeks had paled a little in all 
those working months, and her voice missed 
a touch of its former laughing ring. 

But she had gained much more than she 
had lost. Her face bore traces of a far richer 
experience, and a more beautiful living. Since 
the last winter she had striven to do her 
work as unto the Lord, and that spirit enter- 
ing into her heart had found translation in 
her face. 

But despite her faith and resolute effort, 
there were many discouraging days for her. 
At the close of one of them, one of the first 
oppressively warm days of summer, too, when 
any exertion seemed painful, and ordinary 
duties too difficult to perform, she remained 


242 


TO-DAYS AND YESTEEDAYS. 


in the schoolroom for an hour after the others 
had gone. 

Before her lay a huge pile of uncorrected 
papers : French themes and compositions, also 
several egregiously faulty pages of Etymology, 
the early „ efforts of a class of boys who tried 
her patience sorely. 

It was a day when everything had gone 
wrong. Missed lessons, inattention and list- 
lessness had seemed bad enough, but, aside 
from these, there had been one or two 

instances of manifestly intentional unkindness, 
which was but a poor return for her hard 
work and untiring assistance. And Louise, 

who had succeeded in keeping outwardly 

calm till she could be alone, was sobbing 

now in weary discouragement. 

The fear had been often in her mind of late, 
that her strength was failing a little. And 
now a violent headache brought it forcibly to 
her attention, that perhaps she would be com- 
pelled to take a rest from school. 


WHAT THE FLOWERS SAID. 


243 


“Twenty-four weeks more,” she said, cheer- 
ing herself up with thinking how soon the 
time would pass. But somehow, so utterly 
exhausted was she, her tears did not cease to 
flow, and she bowed her head upon the desk 
in front of her, and cried like a child. 

These “ clouds in her sky ” were a part of her 
own private experience. When she went home, 
once during each term and for her vacations, she 
had nothing to tell the home-folks but the 
pleasant part of her daily life. 

There was more unselfish heroism in this than 
may at first appear, for it would have been a 
great comfort to tell her mother some of her 
trials. Even Bessie’s vehement girlish sympathy 
would have been very good to have. But what 
would be the use ? 

Almost unconsciously, Louise was making her 
own happiness subservient to their welfare. And 
though for a time she might get weary and 
find many hard things in her way, the reward 
for her loving endeavor would be certain. 


244 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


After a while she grew calmer, and raising 
her head, looked about the room. The sun was 
sinking from sight, sending a few last rays 
athwart the desks and down the aisles. The 
papers before her didn’t look quite as hopeless 
as they had done an hour ago, and with a little 
lialf-pitying smile at herself, she began her work 
of correcting. 

One, two, three, four, five she had finished 
and laid aside. Thirty-seven more. Could she 
look them all over before it grew too dark to 
see? She took up the package, and, carrying 
her chair to the window where the light was 
brightest, went on with her work. 

“ Miss Carrol ! ” 

So 'noiseless had been the footsteps upon the 
floor, that Louise had been unconscious of any 
presence save her own in the darkening room, 
till she heard her name. She looked up to 
meet the eyes of Alice Huntress, one -of the 
young ladies whose perversity that day had been, 
in part, the cause of her tears. 


WHAT THE FLOWERS SAID. 


245 


“I brought you in some flowers, if you will 

' V 

accept them.” 

She held in her hand a beautiful bouquet. 
June roses, red and white, and half-opened buds 
here and there, beautiful and tender ; delicate 
sprays of green leaves ; purple pansies ; and the 
glorious beauty of the passion-flower. Louise 
smiled brightly as she took them, and looked 
up from them to speak her thanks. 

“ You are very thoughtful, Alice.” 

The young girl hesitated as she turned to 
go. 

“Miss Carrol” — her eyes filled — “I did not 
mean to be rude to you this afternoon. I got 
discouraged and tired, and I didn’t realize how I 
was going to speak. Please forgive me,” her 
irresolute little hand coming out to meet Louise’s. 

“ I love you, Miss Carrol. You shall not 
have occasion to chide me again.” 

Her teacher’s warm kiss was her best answer. 

“It’s all past, Allie. Your flowers will do 
me good. And now, good-night ! ” 


246 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


How cheerful her voice sounded. As she 
turned again to her task it seemed only pleasant 
work. At last, the exercises were all corrected, 
and, putting them in her desk, she made ready 
to leave the schoolroom. Just then, as she 
stood a moment, her face bent down over the 
flowers in her hand, another person entered the 
room, this time not noiselessly, but with a firm, 
decided step. 

Louise looked up, a little startled. 

“Ah, Miss Carrol. You are rather late to- 
night in leaving.” 

It was Mr. Brookes, one of the trustees of 
the school, who had come in to make some 
slight investigation concerning faulty ventilation. 

“ Yes, sir ; I have been unusually busy,” was 
her answer. 

The gentleman, a rather dignified-looking 
personage of perhaps thirty-five years, looked 
at her a little curiously. Perhaps he saw the 
traces of tears upon her face. Perhaps he was 
thinking that it was far paler than when he 


WHAT THE FLOWERS SAID. 


247 


had seen her during previous terms. He made 
no comment, but with a business-like air took 
up the papers she had been examining, and sur- 
veyed them critically. 

“ Do you enjoy this sort of work — the looking 
over such specimens as that, for instance?” 

He held up one of the most faulty. 

“Moderately. But of course some things are 
not quite pleasant. I like to find such ones 
as this ; ” and she passed Alice Huntress’ neatly- 
written theme. 

They chatted a little while about school 
and kindred topics. Then Louise put on her hat. 

“ Wait for me five minutes, will you not, 
Miss Carrol? My horse is at the door, and 
I will take you home.” 

She sat down until he was ready to go. 
As they went down the steps and out to the 
carriage, she heard the village clock strike six. 

“Oh dear ! ” she exclaimed with a sudden, 
irrepressible sigh; “how soon it will be nine 
o’clock again J ” 


248 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


“And are you so tired?” 

He smiled down at her pityingly. 

“ Sometimes I think I am, but for the most 
part I scold myself for lacking energy.” 

Mr. Brookes, being naturally rather an absent- 
minded man, made no reply. He was thinking, as 
she looked up, what a very pretty face it was, 
and noticing, for he was somewhat of a critic 
in such matters, that the hat above it was 
of not the most recent fashion, besides being 
decidedly simple ; also, that Miss Carrol’s 
dress was of plain material and almost void of 
trimming. 

A little wonder came into his mind just 
then. The young lady was receiving a liberal 
salary. She surely could afford to dress a 
little more fashionably if she chose. There 
must be some reason for her economy. 

He roused himself from these thoughts to 
listen to her eager comments on the scenery, 
for, with a kindly wish to give her pleasure, 
he had driven down the river-road, thus pro- 


WHAT THE FLOWERS SAID. 


249 


longing the ride and giving her a glimpse of 
the greenness and beauty she saw all too 
seldom. 

“You are an enthusiastic little creature,” 
he thought to himself, but his audible answer 
was a very quiet “ Yes ; it is very beautiful 
hereabouts. It is more than that to me, for I have 
known and loved the place from my boyhood.” 

As he assisted her from the carriage at the 
door of her boarding-place, Mrs. Green, her 
landlady, peered curiously from the window. 

“ Well, I declare ! ” she ejaculated to her 
worthy husband. “If that isn’t the queerest! 
Here’s Miss Carrol riding home with Arthur 
Brookes. Did you ever ? Why, I’ve known him 
this twenty years, and I never seed him riding 
out with a young lady before.” 

Mr. Green “rather guessed Miss Carrol was 
as good as Arthur Brookes, for all his grand 
ways.” Just then Louise opened the door, put- 
ting a stop to their surprised comments. 

“ Am I very late ? ” she questioned brightly. 


250 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


“ Don’t scold me, please. I’ll do better to-morrow 
night.” 

“Doubt if you could,” said Mr. Green in 
facetious undertone. “Most of the young ladies 
would say you had done very well this time.” 

Louise was accustomed to his joking, but some- 
how it didn't strike her quite pleasantly this time. 
Mr. Brookes seemed to her so grand and dig- 
nified, so altogether superior to these people, 
that she did not like even a jesting hint in ref- 
erence to him. 

After drinking a cup of tea and listening 
patiently to “ auntie ” Green’s expostulations at 
her lack of appetite, she went up-stairs to her 
room. Filling a little vase with fresh water, she 
placed her flowers in it. Then, putting on a 
cool, loose wrapper, she took a book, and, sitting 
down in an easy-chair by the window, began to 
read. But the tempting, dainty rose perfume 
came between her and the page before her. 
She drew the vase toward her, touching the 
flowers almost caressingly. A warm, tender 


WHAT THE FLOWERS SAID. 


251 


thought of Alice’s demeanor, and the words with 
which she .gave them, came into her mind. After 
all, it was ungrateful and faithless for her to 
feel so discouraged as she had done 'that day. 
-The flowers should teach her patience. She 
took out one, a clear white rose, whose every 
petal seemed to whisper of rest and purity, and 
thought as she looked at it : 44 Last summer 

when the roses came I was here in this 
same house, working as I am working now, in 
school. Is there any difference between that 
June and this? Let me think. Then, Bertie 
was sick, and that made me miserable. Papa 
was in trouble about his business, and I knew 
they were all sad at home. Now, Bertie is well, 
and radiantly happy ; the store is flourishing, and 
I — j us t myself — am almost ready to send Bessie 
to Merrivale. And that is what I have worked 
for so long. 

44 And I am so much happier, too, than I 
was then. I am not stumbling along blindly 
any longer.” The rose sparkled for a moment 


252 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


as with a fresh dew-drop, her face beaming 
over it. 

“Oh, this is a better summer — a better 
summer ! ” 

Such beautiful resting thoughts the flowers 
gave her. The mute, unknowing blossoms had 
yet a thousand voices of cheer. 

Alice Huntress little dreamed, when, with 
loving penitence she arranged the slight gift, 
that its mission would be so sweet. 

So we never know, in this world, how 
much the little kindly deeds may accomplish. 
This we do know ; they can do no harm. 
We are sure of that. And if we never 
forget to perform them . when opportunit}'' 
offers, we may find sometime that we have 
“builded better than we knew.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 


HELPED. 

I WANT you to come home, Harold,”' Mr. 

Lawton wrote to his son near the close 
of the summer term at college. Such reports 
of Harold’s conduct had reached him as made 
him determined to recall him. 

The young man seemed to have lost all 
sense of his degradation, and to really enjoy the 
company which a year before he only 
tolerated. When he read his father’s letter, 
containing this brief, imperative summons, he 
was angrily disappointed. To be sure, he 
wasn’t leaving much, but in his present state 
of mind that was no important consideration. 

He knew that he was a trial to professors 
and tutors, but, and that is one of the 
253 


254 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


almost unfailing traits of a willful, dissipated 
student, he had grown to look upon them 
as fault-finding and malicious. 

He was surrounded by a small circle of 
young men whose habits were similar to his 
own, and he was averse to leaving them. 
But he knew his father’s commands must be 
obeyed. So, seeking the president, he handed 
him the letter, with a dogged sort of 
effrontery. 

44 There is my explanation,” he said, as the 
gentleman finished reading it. 44 So you will 
understand why I leave to-night.” 

44 Lawton, I regret exceedingly -that your 
conduct has compelled such a measure as this 
on your father’s part. I have endeavored, in 
every way, to help .you in the path of duty. 
It pains me that you are so weak and foolish.” 

Harold showed, for the moment, a gleam of 
his old warm frankness. 

44 1 am sorry,” he began; then his tone 
changed. 44 1 suppose I am one of the worst 


HELPED. 


255 


fellows in the world. At any rate, you all 
seem to think so. Good morning ! ” with mock- 
ing indifference. He strode away, heedless of 
the sad look that President Small’s face wore. 
His conscience told him that this man had 
striven to be a true Christian friend to him, 
but he would not listen to its whisperings. 
He made his preparations for going away, and 
bidding his companions good-by, took the next 
train for home, leaving the place where he 
might have been honored and happy, with a 
feeling of shame and discouragement. 

It was not a happy home-coming. Even 
Lily knew, now, that her beloved brother was 
iu)t as pure and upright as of yore. And he 
read reproach in the quivering little voice, 
when she welcomed him. 

His mother was as kind as ever. But his 
father met him with a stern coldness which 
scarcely warmed into a momentary cordiality. 
His pride and his affections had been sorely 
wounded. He could not overlook his son’s 


256 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


grievous offences till the young man earned, 
in some way, his approval. 

Mr. Lawton found writing for him in his 
office, and watched over him vigilantly. This 
surveillance was extremely irksome to Harold’s 
proud spirit, but he knew he had deserved it. 
Occasionally he would elude his father’s watch- 
ful eye, and seek his old haunts. Then, there 
would be an added cloud at home ; more tears 
from the mother and Lily, and a heavier 
shadow upon Mr. Lawton’s brow. 

The second anniversary of the class grad- 
uation came. Allan Grantley, upon joining 
the army, had delegated his duties as secretary 
to a distant classmate, who faithfully wrote to 

every member of the class, and made out the 

/ 

second annual report. 

Again, there were changes. Several were 
married, still others had joined in the great 
national conflict that absorbed so much of all 
our interests during that year. 

Little Carrie Gleason could send them no word 


HELPED. 


257 


of remembrance now. She was sleeping — in too 
secure and beautiful a peace for even the sounds 
of battle to disturb her — upon a shaded slope 
within sight of her father’s house. 

The mother, who wrote in answer to the 
letter sent her, said: 

“She is so near us, that often I leave my 
sewing or my book and walk through the garden 
to where she lies. It rests me to go, and to 
realize that my daughter is done with all the 
pain and the weariness, and safely housed, so 
early, in the Father’s better home.” 

With a tender feeling, that no words of his 
could do justice to that letter, the young man 
sent a copy of it to every one of them. 

Harold Lawton was deeply touched by it. 
Within the last year he had almost forgotten 
the old days at school, or remembered them 
only with a feeling of patronizing superiority. 

Upon the reception of a note of inquiry, he 
made brief reply that he had been in college, 
but was at home in disgrace. 


258 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


This rough statement was modified in the 
report. He saw his own name among the others. 
He read the pages through, and sighed at their 
close. 

“Am I the only one who is wasting life so 
wickedly ? ” 

The names of their dead, tenderly mentioned 
and cherished, ah, how long was the list ! And 
this last one, this recent record ! His tears 
dropped upon it. How transient the impression 
might have been we cannot say, but it was 
immediately followed up by another reminder, 
a very kindly, but decided one, from Margaret 
Carrington. 

“ Harold,” so the letter commenced, “ you 
may wonder that I am addressing you in this 
way. But, although two years have passed since 
I saw you, and we probably now have few 
interests in common, I cannot forget that you 
were one of my friends at school, and that I 
saw in you then the elements of a noble 
- character. 


HELPED. 


259 


“ I have heard about you since ; nothing 
pleasant, as you know. 

44 Harold, why is this ? Why are you proving 
false to your highest interests ; your own better 
self? I am surprised and grieved at you. But 
none the less — rather more — I wish to speak 
to you with all the olden friendliness. 

“ I want to bid you rouse yourself from this 
lethargy of folly. For your own sake, Harold 
Lawton, be a true, honorable man. You can be. 
It is not too late for reform. Throw aside this 
past dead year. Trample its bitter memories 
beneath your feet, and stand erect with the proud 
determination that henceforth you will make for 
yourself a noble name. 

44 1 do not wish to think that you are making 
a failure of life. We all expected great things 
of you. Are you going to disappoint us? 

“You are out of college, I hear. Well,- you 
can learn a great many things without books. 

44 It would be better to earn your bread with 
brave, pure hands, and to • forget every line of 


260 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


classic lore, than to traverse the whole field of 
literature and demonstrate practically — what 
would it profit whether you read it in Virgil 
or not? — that the descent to Avernus is easy, 
aye, terribly easy! 

“Find something to do, Harold. Don’t let 
your father’s wealth and generous indulgence be 
a curse to you. Rely upon yourself, Harold ; 
rety upon yourself ! 

“In days like these, when every true heart 
and strong arm can find the triumph of noble 
sacrifice, how dare you squander all your 
privileges, and go on from one idle, useless 
day to another, a slothful cumberer of the 
ground? How dare you? 

“ I hope you will not be angry with me for 
my plain speaking. Even if you are, I shall 
scarcely regret doing what a real friendship for 
you has prompted. 

“ A deeper motive, though, has influenced me. 
I want always to be doing my Master’s work. 
When I think how immeasurably better it is to 


HELPED. 


261 


be trying to live a pure life, I long to help every 
one into the true way. 

“ Once more, Harold, find work to do. It 
were better for you to go out to the cruel, 
uncertain conflict that is raging about us, and 
to laj r down life itself for your country, than 
to wander on in this path you are pursuing. 
Don’t be so foolish, so sinfully blind. ” This 
was signed, “Margaret Carrington.” 

At first, Harold was angry. He threw the 
letter into his desk hastily. 

“ Impertinent ! ” lie muttered, and went on 
with his writing. 

But, somehow, her words haunted him. He 
recalled, all through the day, incidents of 
the old school-life that seemed to belong 
so entirely to another portion of his his- 
tory. 

Walking down street that night he met two 
or three young ladies whom he knew. They 
met him, one without the least sign of recog- 
nition, the others with cool, careless nods. 


262 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


The contrast struck him strongly. How like 
Margaret Carrington it was to remember him 
all the more in his disgrace ! That evening he 
read the letter again. 

“ She has requested no answer,” he said, as 
he finished reading. “ She prefers deeds to 
words. Oh, if I could have strength enough 
to be a man ! ” 

For two weeks he continued in his father’s 
office, working faithfully, and showing in many 
ways that he wished to regain some of his 
lost self-respect. 

Mr. Lawton began to think tremblingly of 
the possibility of his son’s reforming. 

One morning Harold detained his father a 
moment as he was leaving the house. 

“ Can I see you a little while in the library, 
father?” 

He looked into his face with a frank ex- 
pression. 

“ Certainly, my son.” 

He led the way across the hall. 


HELPED. 


263 


“You’ll be surprised, father,” the young man 
began, “to hear what I am going to say, but 
don’t condemn my suggestion till you have 
thought about it. I can’t do much better 
here, I am afraid. I’ve fallen low enough to 
Seel all the heavy weight of disgrace upon me. 
This sort of life isn’t worth anything. I want 
to do better, or die. Father — now don’t dis- 
courage me — I want to enlist in the regiment 
now being filled here.” 

“ This is a sudden resolve, is it not, Harold ? ” 

“ Somewhat so. I’ve been thinking it over 
for two weeks or so. I feel that perhaps I 
can save myself by going. At all events, I 
can at least die trying to do my duty.” 

His father answered him kindly after a brief 
silence. 

“ My boy ” — all the old, fond tone was in 
his voice — “I will not put the least hindrance 
in your way. If you wish to serve your coun- 
try, I cannot say you nay. 1 ’ 

“Then I have your consent.” 


264 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


“ Yes. And my best wishes.” 

“ May I ask yon to tell mother and Lily ? ” 

“ Yes. I will make it as smooth as possible 
for you. But, Harold, if you go away into such 
danger and, amid the evil companions you may 
find, slide again into reckless sin, it will almost 
kill your mother.” 

He did not add, “ and myself,” but Harold 
knew that his father’s happiness was bound up 
in his children. 

Mrs. Lawton was very willing to send her 
son into the dangers of the combat. Tender 
as was her motherly heart, it was yet strong 
to endure ; and she felt that it was better for 
him to go — to make this last effort to save 
himself in risking his life for his country. 

Just before his regiment started for Wash- 
ington, he penned a few lines to Margaret 
Carrington. He tried to tell her the new 
strength her brave, helping words had given 
him, but it was no use; he couldn’t half 
express his thankfulness, and closed abruptly 


HELPED. 


265 


with a “God bless you!” that came straight 
from his heart. 

And so he was gone. Those who love him 
must wait for time to attest whether this last 
trial would prove a failure. 

Ever and anon they saw the name of his 
company among those who were where the 
fighting waged fiercest. And for days after 
such news there would seem an oppression in 
the air, as if they could not breathe freely. 

His letters always cheered them. He sol- 
emnly assured his parents that he was abstain- 
ing entirely from all intoxicating drinks, 
and once, in a little note to his mother, he 
said : “ God willing, mother mine, I’ll be a 
man you shall be proud of yet.” How she 
treasured the words ! 

Once during that autumn it was Harold’s 
good fortune to clasp the friendly hand of 
Allan Grantley. It was by accident that they 
met, and only for a few moments, as Al- 
lan’s company were making ready to march 


266 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


from the place where they had been encamped. 

“ Why, old fellow ! you here ? That’s a 
surprise.” Each looked eagerly in the other’s 
face. 

Allan’s was sun-browned and a little care- 
worn, but his own sunny smile broke out in 
all its remembered brightness. Harold could 
look at him frankly now. He felt that he, 
too, was striving to be noble and true. Fur- 
ther than this he did not reason, or pause to 
analyze the faith that shut out all fear from 
Allan’s horizon and kept him so calm even 
when the danger was most imminent. 

Three days later, among the list of killed 
and wounded in a recent engagement, he saw 
these words : “ Captain Grantley, severely 

wounded.” He took the paper in his hand 
and walked away from the tent. He did not 
wish for careless strangers to see the quick, 
hot tears he could not hide. 


I 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE WINTER. 

# 

T MUST not attempt, within the brief limits 
A of my story, to follow out minutely all 
the windings of the several lives to which I 
have called your attention. We are trying to 
watch their varying courses during three trial 
years — years that tested them all ; that brought 
out many noble qualities, and in many cases 
revealed sinful wanderings. 

Now we find ourselves entering upon the 
third. That winter — eventful as it doubtless 
was in its own way to every one of them — 
contained few incidents which we can particu- 
larly note. 

Occasional stray gleanings from the journals 

they all kept, must suffice for this period of time. 

267 


268 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


Bertie wrote under date of December thirty- 
first, as follows : 

44 The last day of the year ! I want to make 
some special record of my thought, that I may 
keep it for remembrance next December. 

44 It has been such a beautiful year! It seems 
now, looking back upon it, that I have been 
permitted to sing praises and thanksgivings 
from day to day all the year through. God 
has been very tender with me. So joyous is 
my heart that I fear lest I may forget the 
errors and follies of the year, and imagine 
myself standing securely even when my feet 
are stumbling. 

44 Oh, would that, as this day’s sun sinks 
from sight, my sins committed within the year 
that is closing, might also vanish forever into 
nothingness! With Christ’s help, the coming 
year that is so near me, fresh and unsullied 
in its white, winter purity, shall bear the 
record of nobler deeds and more unselfish 
prayers. 


THE WINTER. 


269 


“ * Count that day lost whose low-descending sun 
Sees from thy hand no worthy action done.’ 

“ But other words I have, more beautiful 
still, and I mean to inscribe them on my heart 
as the truest motto for the year. 

“ ‘ Whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of 

God: ” 

Again, under date of January twenty-fourth: 

“ Papa has just been home, telling me that 
unOle Hervey’s case has been decided against 
him, and that now he and aunt Sarah, old 
and childless as they are, must be thrown, 
homeless and poor, upon the world. 

“ 4 If it were not for your happiness, Bertie, 
I know what I should do. I should offer them 
a home here. Uncle Hervey was kind as any 
father to me years ago, when I most needed 
kindness.’ The tears in his eyes brought it all 
back to my mind — the old story they used to 
tell me in my childhood, of the fearful fall 
that killed my grandfather, and his being 
brought home dead, when papa was but a 


270 


TO DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


boy. I can understand what he means by that 
— ‘ when I most needed kindness.’ 

“My answer came, I trust, very promptly. 
‘Why, papa, it would make me happy to have 
them come. You don’t have much faith in 
me, I am afraid.’ 

“ ‘ But, my daughter, they are old people. 
Your aunt has seen a great deal of trouble 
and sickness ; and, being naturally rather a 
nervous, high-tempered woman, she has grown 
irritable. She might annoy you in a thousand 
ways.’ 

“That doesn’t signify. You said that you 
wished them to come, and so, just as strongly, 
do I. To tell the truth, I don’t have a N single 
thing to trouble me. No doubt I need the 
discipline. Now, papa, just write them to come, 
and emphasize your invitation by a very decided 
‘ Bertie also wishes it.’ He went out, looking 
happy and relieved. Of course, I want them to 
come. It will give me some unselfish work to 
do, and I will try to make them happy.” 


THE WINTER. 


271 


“ March 2nd — Evening. I am a little tired 
to-night, for it has been one of aunt Sarah’s 
feeble days, and she has seemed to prefer my 
attendance to that of Mary Rogers, who, neverthe- 
less, knows twice as much about sickness as I do. 
I wonder if auntie is really getting to love me a 
little. 

“I pity her, she is so ill and sorrowful. All 
the good things of this life seem to have eluded 
her grasp for so long, that now she counts every- 
thing ill. 

“ Uncle Henry is less despondent, and interests 
himself so much with books and papers and his 
long, daily walks, that I feel less anxiety for 
his happiness. 

“Auntie, somehow, is, so petulant, and she 
takes so much of my time that — there ! what 
am I doing ? Whining at the one little sacrifice 
I am called upon to make ! Grudging service 
is no service at all, I must remember. 4 The Lord 
loveth a cheerful giver .’ 

“ Auntie’s bell again ! I am going to take my 


272 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


little Bible with me. Perhaps she will like me 
to read from it.” 

“ March 3 d” — The hand trembles here, as if from 
weariness. — “ Aunt Sarah has had a bad head- 
ache to-day, but is much better now. I read 
to her the beautiful chapter about Christ’s open- 
ing the eyes of the blind man. I think it pleased 
her, for she kissed me good-night when I left 
her. 

‘ The trivial round, the common task, 

Will furnish all we ought to ask; 

Room to deny ourselves, a road 
To lead us daily nearer God.”’ 


Margaret upon her birthday chronicled the 
duties and pleasures of her daily life. 

“ December 25th. — Years ago, when I was a 
tiny child sitting by my mother during the 
winter’s evening while she rocked baby Nettie 
in the cradle, she told me how happy it always 
made her that my birthday came on Christmas. 

“ 4 A gift from God, we called you Margaret, 


THE WINTER. 


273 


when we first looked upon your face.’ These 
were her words. Twenty-one years ago to-day 
she called me so — God’s gift to her young, 
loving heart. 

“ The baby she kissed that morning has 
grown a woman now; and mother, my 
precious mother, spends her Christmas with 
the angels who sang their 4 Grlory in the 

highest ,’ upon His earthly birth-morn. 

/ 

“My first Christmas without her! It has 
been hard to be cheerful during this day. 
Somehow the wreaths in the windows, the 
holly and the ivy, the clustering red berries 
that Nettie has arranged so fancifully, have a 
lonely look. 

“The tears would come this morning when 
papa, with such solemn tenderness, gave me my 
birthday kiss and Christmas greeting. Their 
beautiful gifts — his and Nettie’s ! I am glad 
they were not by to see me cry over them. 

“ I have succeeded ill being bright and talk- 
ative thus far; and papa smiled, like himself, 


274 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


sometimes, when I was reading Dickens’ 
Christmas Carol after dinner. 

“ He said to me to-night, ‘ You are a great 
comfort to me, Margaret, daughter.’ Such 
words as these will repay me for any efforts 
I may have made to cheer him. And now 
that he is chatting busily with Dr. Granger, 
and Nettie is deeply interested in her book, 
I can spend a few minutes in ‘ talking to 
myself.’ 

“ What a very quiet sort of life mine has 
grown! And yet, simple and almost monoto- 
nous as are its duties, I never was less dis- 
contented. Is it treachery to her dear memory 
to say ‘ I never was happier ? ’ 

“I used to think it a mere figure of speech 
when believers said that Christ was dearer to 
them than any earthly friend. Now, I can 
comprehend it. The void in my heart that was 
so fathomless has been filled with his tender 
love. And, though there is always a sense of 
loss, humanly speaking, there has been an in- 


THE WINTER. 


275 


finite gain. I find pleasure in living faithfully 
through these uneventful days. 

“ Nettie is giving her attention more than 
ever to her books and music. She is a great 
comfort to me, this bright-faced little sister. 
She is always so cheery that her nightly home- 
coming, when her classes are done, is like a 
sudden flash of sunlight, or a warm little 
Southern breeze. 

“I find work enough to keep me very busy. 
Mornings I attend to the parlors and library, 
and give directions for the day. Then, of late, 
I am taking charge of my own and Nettie’s 
clothing, which taxes my inexperience. 

“ My own reading and studying I am resolved 
not to neglect ; and by economizing my time 
a little I manage to find leisure for it. Music 
is one of papa’s greatest home-comforts, so I 
make it a part of my duty to play and sing 
for him. On this, my birthday evening, I am 
going to sing the Gloria in Excelsis , which he 
so loves to hear. 


276 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


“ It is only a very simple record I am making. 
I almost smile, looking it over. It seems so 
different from the old dreams that I cherished. 
But, thank God, I have got the Day-star 
in my pictures now, and they have lost the 
old dreary shadings.” 

From. Louise’s diary I have taken these two 
extracts. The one what she thought with 
reference to her work as a teacher, the other 
a rapid sketch of her new happiness. 

“What a stormy Friday it has been! I 
have seldom known our number at school to 
be so small. I am, consequently, far less 
tired than usual to-night ; yet, after all, I like 
the busy days best. I can hardly realize that 
the year is so nearly ended ; the school 
year, I mean. I suppose when I see 4 January 
seven’ at the top of my page, I should 
rather be talking about the year’s beginning. 

“And in so few weeks I am going home, 
after spending two years here as a teacher. 


THE WINTER. 


277 


“ The trustees desire me to return, but I 
have declined. I think next year I shall 
remain at home and devote my time to giving 
music lessons. I am a little worn now, and 
I think a change of work would be beneficial. 

“I am glad of the experience of these two 
years. I am, and always shall be, the happier 
for the many new friends I have found. And 
my life will be none the poorer for the 
interest I have taken in my scholars. I won- 
der if all teachers love their scholars as much 
as I do some of mine. They have been with 
me so constantly, I feel that, almost insensi- 
bly, they have grown very dear to me. 
Some of the faces I have seen from day to 
day during these past years will be among 
the pleasantest pictures my memory holds. 
Some names, hear them how or where I 
may in the future, will seem always like the 
echoes of tenderly-remembered days. 

“And now, so soon, I am to go from 
them, and another will take my place. May 


278 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


she be loving and faithful. I wonder if she will 
care for them as I have done. I wonder — it 
makes me a little sad, too — if they will 
speedily learn to forget me. Perhaps so. 
They are young and impressible. It may be, 
that in all the. hurry and happiness of youth, 
thoughts of me will be very rare and care- 
less. But perhaps, years from now, when 
these boys and girls have grown to manhood 
and womanhood, I may meet them in many 
a walk of life. 

“If then, renewing our acquaintance, they 
can refer with dim but pleasant memory to 
the past, and there find a record which has 
not been fruitless of gentle aid and true 
example, I shall be content. 

“ The work, just as it is, I must lay 
down at the Master’s feet, praying Him to 
bless and render fruitful what has been done 
aright, and to cover with his own mantle of 
charity, all its faults and failures. 

“ Home, March 29 th. — How like a dream my 


THE WINTER, 


279 


present seems ! Can it be a reality, this new 
warm love that so enfolds me in its tender- 
ness ? What am I, to merit such a blessing ? 
I thought of it as I stood before the mirror 
this morning. What was there in my face, or 
voice, or manners, to attract such a man as 
Arthur Brookes ? And he says he loves me 
for my goodness, and honors me. He, too, 
stoops from his own place to honor poor 
little me ! 

“I just hold my breath, sometimes, before 
this great happiness. It is too strange and 
new, as yet, to be altogether peaceful. After 
a little, I shall learn to rest in it, and be 
grateful for the blessing. 

“ I must write to Margaret and Bertie. I 
know they will both rejoice in my joy. Tender- 
hearted little Bertie has given me a great deal 
of sympathy in my hard work. Margaret has, 
too, but her condolence is always as bracing 
as a tonic. 

“ ‘ It’ll do you good, Lou.’ How many times 


280 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


she has written that! How I wish I could see 
her dear face ! Only a little more than three 
months before I shall, and my hard work will 
be over. Indeed, I never stopped to think 
how hard it was till now I know, from the 
sense of rest I feel, that it did weigh upon 
me. 

“ I shall grow very indolent, I am afraid, 
now that I find the need of exertion gone. 
But, if I am thankfully happy, and happily 
thankful — the girls would smile at that — I 
shall hope to be kept from any grievous lapse.” 

Harold Lawton, little accustomed to jour- 
nalizing, made but the briefest daily notes. 
Sometimes, after exposure to danger and death, 
we find a few strong words, expressive of 
gratitude for his safety, perhaps of grief, at 
the loss of some valued comrade. 

Every allusion to his parents and little sister 
showed that the old strong love for them had 
regained its place in his heart. 


THE WINTER. 


281 


Of himself he said little. But in one place 
I find a few lines, written, it would seem, just 
after receiving a letter from his mother. 

“ It fills me with amazement when I think 
about my headlong folly during the last two 
years. Why was I so insane and wicked! 

It makes me shudder, even now, to think 
of Stanton and Bradley ; they were the first 
who led me into evil. 

“ I wondered, when I read the other night 
that Stanton had lost his right arm in battle, 
whether the affliction might not do him good. 
I wish it might. Perhaps, years ago, some one 
tempted him, just as he afterwards tempted me. 
He may yet reform. 

“ For myself, I must try to make up lost 
time. No, mother, do not fear lest I should 
fall again. I have tasted such degradation once 
for all. You shall shed no more tears over 
your boy’s disgrace. I can say in all sincerity 
that no soldier of them all is freer from vice; 
that none can show a clearer record. 


282 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


“ I needed to see the reality of life ; to have 
a cause worthy all my strength to help sustain, 
and it has saved me.” 

Allan Grantley was at home for three months, 
suffering from wounds. “ The gallant young 
captain,” as the papers called him, had plunged 
into the thickest of the fight, encouraging his 
soldiers to go where there was need of bravest 
struggle ; and, though he was borne faint and 
bleeding from the field, he had the jo} 7- of hear- 
ing the victorious shouts of the Union troops. 

He was very patient during his compulsory 
furlough. And his mother, thankful always 
that this illness was not “ unto death,” prized 
every moment that she could have him at 
home. 

During these quiet weeks he had leisure for a 
great deal of thought, and some memories, which 
perhaps had been steadily repressed during his 
stronger days. 

* Sometimes he would pencil a few lines, indi- 


THE WINTER. 


283 


cative of a certain uneasiness which no one save 
himself ever guessed. 

One day he had been spending an hour in 
looking over old school programmes and essays. 
A tiny note fluttered out from the midst of 
the papers. He knew every word that it con- 
tained — just a request to meet the committee 
in the lecture room, to decide on a class motto 
— but he opened it, and looked a long time at 
its contents. It was in Bertie Arnold’s hand- 
writing. A faint perfume still clung about the 
paper; the delicious violet perfume that she 
always used. 

That night his fancies found expression on 
paper. 

“ Were I a rich man, had I even a home 
to offer her, I should tell her the truth. She 
doesn’t know it, the gentle-faced little creature! 
but even back in the old school-days I loved 
her. And now — well, I am older, that is all. 
My caring is for once and always. 

“It has been so long since I saw her! It 


284 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


may be she has quite forgotten me, and yet 
I hope not. 

“ Bertie, Bertie — I dare to write it here where 
no one else will see — how dear you are to 
me ! The future is uncertain. My country has 
need of me now. I must not darken your calm 
happiness by a word of the love that could 
offer you no fair_ exchange for what it would 
ask. 

“ The fearful battle-clouds rise darkly between 
the present and that rapidly nearing^ re-union. 
X have seen so much of death that I count less 
surely upon the future. 

“I may not be there to see you, little Bertie, 
and yet I have dreamed of it so often ! But 
whether we meet again or not, may God’s tender 
love guide and keep thee. May his rich blessings 
be abundantly thine. And though my love bring 
me naught but pain, I cannot murmur, since, 
through these years, it has been like a gentle, 
brooding dove in my heart. I have tried to 
keep the shrine pure for it. Surely no thought 


THE WINTER. 


285 


of ill should find a resting-place where thou wert 
cherished.” 

Perhaps from such words as these, you will 
gain some idea of what this winter brought 
to each of them. 

They were walking in widely different paths, 
but God’s love is broad as the universe, and these 
young lives were, every one of them, tenderly 
held therein. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


THE BEAUTIFUL FACE. 

"1% /T AY-FLOWERS ! How lovely! Margaret 
“*“*-*■ thought, as, standing by the window in 
the spring morning, she saw a little boy go by 
with his fragrant burden. It was early for 
them to be found, and she wondered where 
the child had been in quest of them. He 
walked along very sedately, a grave expression 
upon his face, guarding his basket of blossoms 
carefully against any chance crowding of the 
passers-by. 

It went out of Margaret’s mind, save to 
mention to Nettie at the dinner-table that the 
trailing arbutus was in bloom, and she would 
like to find some. 

That afternoon she went out for a walk. 

286 


THE BEAUTIFUL FACE. 28T 

It was a fancy of hers to take long, solitary 
walks, and this day was so full of the inspirit- 
ing freshness of the s*pring, that her step was 
elastic and her eye bright. 

She walked on until she found herself in 
the vicinity of that humble house of worship 
that had witnessed one of the fiercest conflicts 
of her life. Impelled by a strong feeling of 
interest, she turned into the narrow street and 
went down toward the church. Reaching it, 
she noticed, to her surprise, that the doors 
were open, and people were going in. She 
looked at her watch. It was three o’clock. 
She decided quickly that she had leisure to 
join them, and passed in with the others, 
wondering a little that they were having a 
week-day service. 

As she walked down the aisle she saw, 
with a strange thrill of feeling, that a coffined 
form was lying before the altar. 

She wondered who of those she had seen 
there once before was to be borne hence to their 


288 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


quiet resting-place. It was evident that the 
grief touched very many of those present. She 
saw — yes, she was sure of it — the same child 
who had passed her window in the morning, 
sitting near the front row of seats, his lips 
quivering, and the slow tears falling now and 
then, despite his utmost endeavors to the con- 
trary. 

Again, Margaret had a sudden, pained sense 
of being a stranger among them, but this time 
came a quick thought of comfort. She was no 
stranger to the Lord who met them here. She, 
who had walked through the valley of deso- 
lation, could “ weep with those who wept.” 
She could mingle her prayers, too, with^theirs. 

She noticed how the minister’s voice faltered 
in the opening prayer. It was plain that his 
heart was very heavy at this death. 

She wished, while they were singing, that she 
could catch a glimpse of that face in the coffin. 
It seemed to be literally surrounded by flowers. 
How little she had dreamed that the pink-tinged 


THE BEAUTIFUL FACE. 


289 


blossoms which had gladdened her sight that 
morning were consecrated to the dead. 

The hymn was ended, the minister arose to 
speak to his people of the one who had gone. 
Very slowly he read the Scripture, “ When this 
mortal shall have put on immortality , then shall 
be brought to pass the saying that is written , 
Death is swallowed up in victory .” 

For a moment he was silent, looking down 
thoughtfully upon the face which Margaret 
could not see. She noticed that many were 
weeping. 

Then he went on to speak of the departed ; 
of her faith, her goodness, her beautiful Chris- 
tian life. “ A young girl,” Margaret repeated 
to herself ; “ perhaps as young as I am.” 

With a sudden flash of remembrance it all 

I came to her. She felt sure that she had seen 
that face upon that night when the joy-flush 
illumined it. 

The speaker alluded in touching terms to 
this young girl’s orphanage ; her homeless life, 


290 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


save, as he quietly added, for the home we all 
gave her in our hearts. He spoke of her 
earnest, sympathetic way of doing good ; of 
‘her love for little children — here the boy 
whom Margaret had seen, hid his face — of 
her reverence for the aged. He dwelt with 
tender sympathy upon the slow, wearing 
agony of her life. His voice grew stronger 
as he told of her triumphant departure. 

His loving tribute ended, they sang again. 
Then, e’er the coffin-lid was closed, those 
who cared to do so, went to look upon the 
one so soon to be carried from their midst. 

Margaret followed the others. It was as she 
had felt. The same face, only a little thinner 
and paler than she had seen it, utterly peace- 
ful, with the flowers about it. 

Her white hands were clasped, holding a 
few tiny buds ; the closed lids hiding the 
strangely beautiful eyes. 

Margaret pondered wistfully. What wonder- 
ful glories that soul had seen! Whether any- 


THE BEAUTIFUL FACE. 


291 


thing, even in the heaven where she would 
feel health and strength, could be better to 
her than the vision that those eyes reflected 
when she caught the Saviour’s voice of love. 

With instinctive reverence she put her hand 
on the white forehead, then left the little 
room, moving with hushed step past that 
little company of mourners, and carrying out 
with her a consciousness of having been in a 
holy place. 


CHAPTER XX. 


THE PROPHECY DEFEATED. 

"IV /TAY had come in that eventful year of 
“*“*■*• 1865, when the joy-bells rung out the 

story of our great, decisive triumph ; when 
all hearts were lightened and all faces radiant 
with relief at the new peace of the Nation. 

There were hushes even amidst our jubilant 
thanksgiving. The many fresh graves that 
marked as many heart-wounds were before 
our eyes ; quiet reminders of the great price 
which had been paid. 

The memory of him who had been taken 
away in that first flush of thankfulness — our 
martyred Lincoln — was tenderly and tearfully 
cherished. Such sacred pain, mingling with 

the joy, gave it a tinge of sadness. But the 
292 


THE PROPHECY DEFEATED. 


293 


relief and happiness were uppermost. The 
absent dear ones whom the fires of the war 
liad-not destroyed were to return soon to their 
homes. 

Very few among us all but were thinking 
with quicker heart-beats of some near and 
tender welcome. 

“ It is beautiful,” Louise Carrol said softly 
to her mother, as they sat at their sewing in 
the little morning-room. “It is very beautiful 
to me to think that my marriage is to take 
place now, just in the first gladness of our 
victory. Somehow, it wouldn’t have seemed 
quite fitting before.” Now, aside from the 
bloom and the beauty, there is a deeper sense 
of happiness. I do not feel that it is thank- 
less for me to pause from all work for the 
present and accept this great blessing.” 

Mrs. Carrol looked at her a moment in ten- 
der motherly thoughtfulness. She made a pleas- 
ant picture, leaning back in her low sewing-chair, 
the dainty ruffling she was hemming just 


294 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


fallen from the slender fingers that were 
clasped loosely as she spoke. 

The rest of home — perchance this crowning 
happiness of her young life — had brought back 
the old flush to her cheeks, and the merriment 
to her eyes. With it all, the new look of 
earnestness remained. 

“ I can trust you, my darling,” was the 
mother’s unspoken thought. 

“ It seems strange to me,” Louise went on 
musingly, “when I think of being taken right 
away from worriments and anxieties about the 
daily furnishings of life. That is one of the 
good things that has come to me — the ease 
and plenty that will be mine. I smile to my- 
self when Mr. Brookes chides me for my small 
economies, or tells me they will be needless 
henceforth. Somehow all this planning and 
saving and ''working has grown dear to me.” 

Then she laughed merrily. 

“ Oh, I remember when we were at school, 


THE PROPHECY DEFEATED. 


295 


one of the girls wrote a composition, and 
took for the title this line : 

“‘The sweetest butter comes from the milk 
we have churned.’ 

“ When Mrs. Niles looked at it, she straight- 
way changed it to — 

“ 6 The results we most prize, come from our 
own work.’ 

“ Hattie didn’t like it, and clung to her first 
choice, though we all told her it savored too 
much of the dairy to be quite classical. But I 
always remembered it, and now I can under- 
stand something about it. 

“ My carefully kept dresses, and old -styled 
cloaks, the few books I used to buy at the 
close of every term, and especially the money 
I saved for Bessie’s schooling, were some of 
my churning.’ ” 

“And now your generous friend declares he 
shall take charge of her education himself. He 
told her father last night that she ought to 
go away again, next term, and begged the 


296 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


privilege — those were his words — of defraying 
her expenses for the rest of her course.” 

“ I knew he intended telling papa so ; ” her 
brown eyes were moist. “ So my poor little 
helping won’t be the real thing, after all.” 

“ I think your 4 poor little helping ’ has been 
one of the best things, daughter. This is your 
helping none the less that it comes from his 
hands. Your father was speaking about it last 
night.” 

“About what, mother?” 

“You, dear, to be candid. And we both 
decided — I will tell you, because I think you 
deserve it at the close of your hard years of 
effort — that you would be safe in your pros- 
perity. You have borne the toil nobly, and 
now God is giving you a beautiful recompense 
of happiness. We are so glad for you, darling 
— your father and I. 

“Not solely, or most, for the wealth and 
luxury that await you, but because you love 
him whom you have chosen, and because you 


THE PROPHECY DEFEATED. 


297 


both love the Saviour. Your home will be 
blessed; not for its wealth and elegance, but 
because it will be consecrated to Christ.” 

After that they were very quiet for a little 
while, the breeze coming softly into the room, 
lifting the curtains, and blowing Louise’s dark 
hair into little stray waves upon her forehead. 
Such tender talks and even tenderer silences 
had become very frequent between the mother 
and daughter. Both felt more than they said. 
But both understood a great deal that remained 
unspoken. 

Louise was to be married upon the twenty- 
fourth. Only a few days remained of her girl- 
hood home life. Those days, shaded occasionally 
by little sadly pleasant memories, .just as you 
have seen the sun obscured by light, passing 
clouds, weTe, for the most part, very happy. 

To Bessie, it was simply delightful. She en- 
joyed Mr. Brookes’ frequent comings, and chiv- 
alrous, elder-brotherly kindness to herself. The 
slight stir, and, to her eyes, unwonted magnifi- 


298 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


cence of Louise’s preparations, seemed to invest 
the house with new dignity and importance. 

The trunks which were waiting, some almost 
packed, for the bridal journey, seemed tangible 
hints of the delightful wanderings which would 
suffer no limitations except their wishes. 

Then, too, her own departure for school was 
near at hand. And, so quiet had been Bessie’s 
life, she looked forward to her new prospects 
with fluttering heart. 

“ Your prediction is to be falsified, Margaret,” 
Louise wrote about this time in one of her 
letters. “ I shall be unable to say ‘ Louise 
Carrol, aged forty-five,’ as you so flatteringly 
foretold. But, despite that humiliating mistake, 
may I ask your good wishes, perhaps a few 
little tender thoughts, and a murmured ‘ God 
bless you ! ’ when you think of my bridal.” 

The morning of the twenty-fourth was beau- 
tifully bright and peaceful. 

It was a very quiet wedding. Bessie had 


THE PROPHECY DEFEATED. 


299 


adorned the simple rooms with flowers ; and 
the light coming in in little quivering rays 
through the half-closed blinds, was just faint 
enough to accord with the deep, quiet joy of 
the occasion. 

In the presence of a few chosen friends, Louise 
stood amid the flowers, and the sifting sun- 
rays, and spoke her marriage vows. 

Her face was earnest with new meanings. 
If one-half of the unuttered hopes, the tender, 
joyous heart-prophecies that unconsciously re- 
vealed themselves, were realized, surely she 
would be thrice blest. 

The hand that clasped hers was strong and 
true. The eyes that were bent upon her with 
rare, deep affection, never shrank from looking 
with royal, steadfast honesty upon the world. 

The true heart which would be her refuge 
in all the after storms of life, had enshrined 
her as its dearest earthly treasure. The lips 
that had uttered to her words of affection, had 
said — as if even in this happiness the speaker 


300 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


did not forget to whom he owed it — “ If God 
spares us to each other, darling, we shall be 
very happy. We must not forget to ask his 
blessing upon our love.” 

The brief service was over ; the girlish home- 
life ended ; the familiar name even changed. 
And this step which she had taken was for 
no transient experiment. Only death could 
sever the bond between them. 

Ah ! at the bridal, how seldom do we pause 
to think of the significance of that solemn 
“ Until death — ” 

But happy the wedded life which begins 
amid the prayers of parents and friends, and 
the deeper, more soul-felt thanksgiving of the 
two hearts which are thus bound by a life- 
long tie. 

Bessie wondered a little, when, kissing her 
sister, and greeting her by the new name, the 
cheek that pressed her own left a hot tear 
upon her face. The mother comprehended bet- 
ter. She knew . that some joys, from their 


THE PROPHECY DEFEATED. 


301 


very depth, occasion pain. And she saw that 
her child’s heart was full. 

A month later, up among the hills of New 
Hampshire, in a quiet little town where they 
chanced to rest for a day, after much car-riding, 
the husband and wife sat together talking 
of the pleasant weeks since they began their 
journey. 

“And now it is almost ended,” Louise said 
at last, half-regretfully. 

“Almost ended, and yet, but just begun. 
This little happy rest may seem to us some- 
time, darling, like the refreshing sunrise hour 
before the day’s heat and weariness.” Her eyes 
met his questioningly. “Do not be frightened. 
I didn’t mean to speak too seriously. But we 
have been so happy ! Perhaps we ought not 
to expect the untried always , that you speak 
of so often, to be just like these last pleasant 
yesterdays .” 

“ Not in all respects. But the same in two 
things, I trust, even till we go down the 


302 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


sunset slope of life — our love for each other 
and our constant faith in God.” 

“I wished, a little sadly, that the flowers 
in the vases, upon that morning we were mar- 
ried, wouldn’t wither. I did not like to think 
that change and decay could come so soon 
into the beautiful freshness of our surroundings.” 

“ I took a tiny spray of flowers, Louise, for 
remembrance. And sometime, perhaps, we may 
look at it together, and rejoice that, though 
it has grown scentless and faded, the love 
which it memorizes has but waxed stronger, 
and its tender mystery freshened with the 
years that hkve been powerless to change.” 

How near them seemed the beautiful blue 
sky! In the light of their happiness that day, 
the joys beyond became almost intelligible. 

“ Our life is all before us, dear one,” Mr. 
Brookes went on ; “ our lovely, united life. I 
do not tremble in presence of my great happi- 
ness, but I find my prayers are more heart- 
felt and earnest. 


THE PROPHECY DEFEATED. 


803 


“ Of late, I have felt sometimes that I under- 
stood ” — he paused, and spoke next in a very- 
quiet tone — “something about what the apostle 
meant when he spoke of the great mystery of 
such love, and declared it to be sacred like the 
tie between Christ and his earthly Church.” 

Louise did not answer. It was seldom that 
her grave, quiet husband gave utterance to his 
deepest feelings. When he did, she saw depths 
in his nature that gave her a sense of rest and 
strength. Now, she could not have put her 
thought into words, but it was something like 
this : 

« If ever, in that distant, unknown future, 
she should be sitting alone — white-haired, it 
might be, and feeble with the burden of the 
years — could even time or grief, or the grave 
which might be her remembrance, blot from 
her memory the words that had joined their 
love to the hereafter?” 


CHAPTER XXI. 


t 


THE REUNION. 


GAIN the July sun glowed warmly 



^ through the tall, clustering trees in dear 
old Merrivale. Again, after three years of ab- 
sence, three familiar girlish figures stand in 
“ Margaret’s room,” looking out toward the 
changeless, well-remembered mountains. The 
long-anticipated day of reunion had arrived. 

From widely scattered homes, from the re- 
cent peril and triumph of the war, from pleas- 
ant rest, or honorable work, the class had come 
to this mutual, happy commemoration. 

Changed themselves, hurrying on despite, it 
may be, a few quiet sighs for passing youth, 
to the realities of their maturer life, it was 
restful to them all to find the old school-home 


THE REUNION. 


305 


unchanged. How lightly all the storms had 
touched the place ! How entirely the same 
seemed the buildings, the streets, the very 
gardens before the houses. 

The familiar faces of the teachers, too, kept 
wondrously fresh in this life that drew them 
always so close to youth. 

Professor Lindsay greeted the returned 
“ children ” with almost fatherly warmth. His 
quick, inquiring gaze read every face ; saw from 
the new lines in each whether the three years’ 
history had been of triumph or failure. 

Mrs. Howard welcomed the girls affection- 
ately. “ No birds in these cages, since you went 
away, have filled your places,” she said, with 
something between a smile and a tear. 

“ Why, Mrs. Howard ” — Louise turned from 
the window and kissed her again — “do you 
remember my nonsense so well as that ? There’s 
fidelity for you ! ” Again in the atmosphere of 
the pleasant old school-life Louise was just her 
former self. She sparkled ; she fairly bewitched 


306 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


them all into hilarity, and quite astonished 
dignified Mr. Brookes, who was endeavoring 
to make acquaintance with her friends, by 
her comical tricks of speech and snatches of 
merry song, enigmatical to him, but full of 
meaning to her fellow-students. 

Mr. Brookes was greatly pleased with Mar- 
garet Carrington. “ A face full of meanings,” 
he whispered to his wife at first seeing her. 
There was a little tone of triumph in Louise’s 
voice as she told her friend’s name, for she 
had never been able to awaken much enthu- 
siasm when she had tried to describe Marga- 
ret’s characteristic attractions. Very possibly he 
might not have admired the girl of her remem- 
brance ; but the impetuous, undisciplined nature 
had become a chastened, gentle-hearted woman. 
She stood among the others, no longer haughtily 
distant, save to a chosen few, but gentle, affec- 
tionate > — a queen still, by her royal gifts of 
heart and brain. 

“ Three whole years, Maggie,” Louise mur- 


THE REUNION. 


807 


mured. And Margaret answered, something in 
her eyes bringing to Louise’s mind the quick 
thought that now her friend was motherless, 
“Yes, three years, dear.” 

Bertie, with curls grown long again, and 
pink-tinted cheeks, welcomed one and another 
of her friends with the same gentle grace as 
of old. 

Gracie Rogers — Gracie Rogers no longer, but 
Mrs. Dr. Holcomb — was a little dignified and 
patronizing, perhaps, but thoroughly affectionate 
still. Her husband, owing to pressing business 
engagements, could not come. 

Once, within the first hour after their arrival, 
Mrs. Howard broke down and cried heartily. 
She had come into the room with something 
carried very carefully in her hand. 

A long, golden-brown curl, a tiny slip of 
primrose paper caught in it, bearing a name 
and the two little words, “ Don't forget ! ” They 
needed not to read the name. Then came to 
them all a vision of the childish face with its 


308 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


crown of curls ; the little graceful figure that 
had been in their midst when they were last 
assembled there. 

Margaret, especially, who had loved and 
petted winsome little Carrie Gleason, thought 
to herself how many times that very curl, per- 
haps, had fallen upon her own shoulder as she 
had held the tiny little creature in her arms. 

Ah, truly — 

“Nothing so consecrates a name 
As to be written dead ! ” 

It was hard to break the silence that fell 
upon them all. It was Bertie’s voice that spoke 
first in the words of that old sacred question 
and reply: , 

“ 4 And he said unto her : Is it well with the 
child ? And she answered : It is well .’ ” 

All the exercises of the day were fraught 
with deepest interest. 

The dinner in the long hall, when Allan 
Grantley — “ master of ceremonies,” as Louise 


THE REUNION. 


309 


whispered to Grace Holcomb — counting their 
number, found that thirty-five out of forty-two 
were present ; the glad welcomes ; the old cor- 
diality soon taking the place of the first few 
moments’ shyness; the eager questionings con- 
cerning the three years of separations which 
resulted in the happy discovery that this re- 
union was really one* to them all, made the 
hours pass all too fleetly. 

At first no mention was made of those who 
were away. But by and by “ our dead,” as 
Allan reverently named them, received their 
unforgetful tribute. 

Harold Lawton, his face purified now from 
every lingering stain of the old degradation, 
walked out to meet Margaret on the Common, 
where the classmates were strolling in pleasant 
little groups, toward sunset. 

“May I claim a few moments of your time, 
Miss Carrington ? ” he questioned, with a little 
deprecatory smile toward the young lady with 
whom she was talking. She turned, and, ac- 


310 TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 

cepting his offered arm, they passed down the 
hill, out upon the Garden road, as students 
termed it. 

At first they talked of the day and the 
friends they met. But ere long Harold, who 
was restlessly striking the tall grass by the 
wayside with a slender reed he had found, 
broke out abruptly : 

“Margaret, I want to thank you. You saved 


“Did I?” 

“ It seems so to me, always. Your letter 
came just when every one else had given me 
up, and I was feeling myself an abandoned 
outcast. Your outstretched hand drew me back 
to hope and life.” 

“ I am very glad,” she answered simply. 

“I knew you would be glad. You have 
helped me in many ways, one in particular, 
which will be a blessing to me all my life ; 
you restored my faith in friendship, in good- 
ness, in the world. It had been terribly shat- 


THE KE UNION. 


311 


tered in those months just before you wrote 
me. I know — I can see well enough what sort 
of a woman you are going to make, and I 
know in the full, beautiful life before you, it 
will gladden you to remember that you saved 
me from despair and loss.” 

“It will, Harold. I thank God that you are 
striving now to be a worthy man. I wish, how- 
ver,” — her smile took away the hardness of the 
words — “ that your reform was based upon some- 
thing real. The gain you have made is of 
unspeakable value, but there is something better 
still.” 

Harold listened respectfully. This faith was 
very precious to her, he knew from her voice 
and expression. But he had not gained the 
knowledge that could make it plain to him. 

Margaret had the. tact to stop when she 
had said enough. She changed the conversation 
now, and they returned to indifferent topics. 
But the few words that had been spoken 
would lodge in the young man’s mind. 


312 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


They rejoined their companions upon the 
Common just in time to hear Louise’s eager 
voice. 

“ Oh, yes,” she was saying. “We can all 
sing. It will be so pleasant to have music 
out here.” 

They all joined in the familiar class ode. 
Their voices rung out full and strong in the 
fresh air, beneath the arching trees. The 
green branches took up the echoes, adding 
thereto mystic whisperings of their own ; 
and the waves of song went upward, many a 
raised glance and lifted thought following them. 

At last, when the twilight deepened, and 
the evening dews began to fall, some one sug- 
gested going in. 

“Let’s sing once more,” pleaded many voices. 

And Bertie, who was usually slow to make 
suggestions, spoke eagerly: “We all know 
Naomi . Can’t we sing that?” 

Some one commenced the hymn, and they 
all joined in the beautiful words : 


THE REUNION. 


313 


“Father, whate’er of earthly bliss — ” 

Harold noticed then, and remembered long 
after, the light upon the two faces nearest 
him — Bertie’s and Margaret’s. The “calm and 
thankful heart ” found visible expression in 
Bertie’s sweet face. And Margaret’s eyes, 
lustrous and peaceful, told that that “ Pres- 
ence ” shone even then upon her way. 

“Are you making many plans for next year, 
Hal?” 

Allan’s voice startled him from his reverie, 
as, taking his arm, he drew him toward the 
house. 

“Not' many. But one, certainly. I am 
going back to college, and I’m going to do 
my duty there. You know I lost one year.” 

Allan pressed his arm more firmly. 

“ I know you treated me shamefully, old 
fellow. Don’t ever neglect me so again. If 
you do, I’ll — ” 

“ What, A1 ? ” after a slight pause. 

“ Care just as much for you as ever, and 


814 


TO DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


feel hurt at your silence. I might as well 
adhere to the truth.” 

“You’ve been a faithful friend to me, 
Allan. You shall have no occasion to feel 
sorry for me again. And now for yourself. 
What are your plans ? ” 

Allan took a letter from his pocket, and 
handed it to him. 

“ I brought it here to-day on purpose to 
show it to you. I knew you would understand 
my thankfulness.” 

It was a long letter from Allan’s uncle 
George, whose only son had just died of con- 
sumption. It spoke in touching terms of his 
loneliness, and begged his nephew to come to 
his home. He told him that, childless now, 
he turned to him as the son of his loved 
brother, and offered him a son’s place in his 
home, his business and his wealth. 

“Why, fortune seems to favor you,” Harold 
said merrily as he refolded the letter. 

I didn’t realize how much good this letter 


THE REUNION. 


315 


did me till to-day,” Allan began impulsively, 
as he noticed a flutter of white muslin upon 
the balcony at Mrs. Howard’s. Then, check- 
ing himself as quickly, he went on to explain 
the nature of his uncle’s business, and the 
arrangements he was making to remove with 
his mother to the city. 

“ It isn’t quite my first dream, Harold. I 
wanted to be a minister, you know. That was 
my greatest wish, but God seemed to settle 
that question for me. I could have got along 
in some way, so far as the lack of money 
went. Bat when physicians told me that my 
throat was too weak to allow of my ever 
being a public speaker, I gave up all thought 
of that.” 

“ It was a hard trial for you. I remember 
it,” said Harold pityingly. 

“Yes. Then you remember the book Pro- 
fessor Lindsay loaned me of Bushnell’s ? I 
found what I wanted there. How often since 
I have said these lines to quiet all misgivings.” 


316 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


“ ‘ God has a definite- life-plan for every 
human person, girding him, visibly or invis- 
ibly, for some exact thing, which it will be the 
true significance and glory of his life to have 
accomplished. The commonest offices are to 
become the necessary first chapter of a great 
and noble history.’ 

“ I am not going to murmur that my own 
plan was thwarted. I am going to walk trust- 
ingly in the way He has marked out for me.” 

“ Margaret,” said Bertie that night after they 
had gone to their chamber, “what do you think 
of Louise’s husband ? ” 

“ I like him, thoroughly.” 

“ So do I. She seems very happy.” 

“Yes. It does me good to watch her. She 
will make a very beautiful woman, I think.” 

“ I like to watch them all,” Bertie answered. 
“I find myself just as fond of my old school- 
mates as ever. No other girls have ever taken 
their places.” 


THE REUNION. 


317 


“ Thank you, for my share of that.” 

They didn’t talk much after that. It had 
been an exciting day, and Margaret was weary. 
She fell asleep soon, but Bertie was awake for 
an hour dreaming. 

The next day it was decided unanimously 
to remain till the next. Some of the young 
gentlemen suggested a ride, and, at Margaret’s 
desire, they took the old familiar road where we 
once followed them during their coach ride. 

Allan and Harold, with Margaret and Bertie, 
were in the same carriage. 

“ O Allan ! ” Margaret exclaimed, “ do you 
remember ” — as they neared the village — “ the 
little boy we saw that day ? The one you 
took such an interest in ? ” 

“Well, I rather guess I do. He is one of 
my particular friends.” Then followed numerous 
questions. 

44 Well,” Allan began, after there was a lull 
in the questions, “if you will let me speak, 
I’ll tell you all about it. 


318 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


“It wasn’t a week after I got home before 
I received a very prettily written note of thanks 
from the mother of onr little Henry. I will 
say here that she is a very superior woman 
indeed. 

“Not long after, the boy himself wrote to 
me. And I, pleased that he remembered, an- 
swered promptly. Our help was timely, I judged 
from what Mrs. Davis wrote me. She spoke of 
a brother she had wished to find in another 
State, but poverty had prevented her. The 
money we gave Henry, added to her own slender 
store, enabled her to go. And I received an 
account of the visit in the boy’s own graphic 
language. 

“ This brother, it seems, had never quite for- 
given her the marriage which had sorely tried 
the pride of her family, and for several years 
there had been no communication between them. 
He was still unmarried, wealthy and eccentric, 
and it seemed wrong that his only sister should 
be suffering for the common comforts of life, 


THE EEUNION. 


319 


while he gave his wealth by hundreds and 
thousands to the needy. 

“Well, they found him after a little difficulty, 
and his heart could not withstand the appeal 
their pitiful appearance made. After a few days 
he seemed as fond of his sister as ever. And 
as to the child, he discovered in him — as I did 
— the germs of unusual power. 

“ He took them to his home, and for the 
last three years, nearly, little Henry has had 
every advantage of wealth and education. But 
I think lie keeps just the same good heart as 
ever, and his letters show rapid improvement 
as a scholar. I never think of the child without 
my heart warming.” 

The pleasant day ended at length. On the 
morrow they separated again, and the reunion 
was a thing of the past. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


LAST GLIMPSES. 

A ND now our mutual way ends. Ere I 
say a word of good-by to the readers 
whose interest has followed mine through these 
pages, I will give a few stray hints of the 
future which lay broad and fair before these 
young voyagers upon the sea of life. 

My first picture shall be of a beautiful home 
upon the Hudson — a vine-embowered cottage, 
showing cool as a white lily from its green 
surroundings upon the June day when I saw it. 

Upon the shaded porch sat a fair young 
mother, her brown eyes full of happy light, 
her watchful hand guarding the movements of 
the crowing baby who was just trying to steady 
himself upon his tiny feet. 

3 20 


LAST GLIMPSES. 


821 


“ Willie darling, be careful,” as he slipped 
and almost fell. Then, as she saw a well- 
known figure coming up the walk, Louise — for 
it was she — took her baby in her arms and 
hastened to meet her husband. He took the 
child from her, and together they walked back 
to the house. The wide-open blue eyes that 
smiled at first so brightly at “papa,” grew 
drowsy after a little, and the baby was put in 
his cradle for a quiet nap. 

The young mother rejoined her husband. They 
stood side by side beneath the sheltering vines 
that climbed to the top of the piazza. After 
a little pause, Mr. Brookes spoke. 

“Darling, how good God is to us.” 

Louise, our merry, talkative Louise, didn’t 
speak a word in reply. Stooping down, she 
picked up a little half-worn shoe that her 
child had left upon the floor. Her fingers ten- 
derly. drew it into shape again, and smoothed 
the creases upon it. 

Her eyes sought her husband’s, and as his 


322 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


arm drew her close, she hid her face upon his 
shoulder with a sigh of utter content. 

Margaret’s room, the quiet room from which, 
since then, strong words and brave thoughts 
have come to strengthen and help humanity. 
Would you like to see her in it for a moment? 

It was a very large room, lighted by windows 
that reached to the floor. The carpet, covered 
with mosses and berries, always suggested to 
the mind the music of brooks and of bird-songs. 

In the corner was a lounge, looking rather 
comfortable than elegant. The book-case filled 
one end of the room. 

The writing-desk by the eastern window, 
with the easy-chair just before it, seemed, 
after all, to be the place where the occupant 
of the room left surest traces of herself. 
Papers were lying loosely upon it. One 
freshly written page, the ink not yet dry, 
showed that she had but just left her work. 

Upon the walls were pictures enough to 


LAST GLIMPSES. 


323 


delight the eye and fire the imagination. A 
beautiful Madonna hanging over the lounge, 
struck a friend of Margaret’s, coming in one 
day and finding her sleeping upon the lounge, 
with a quick perception of the similarity in 
expression between the pictured face upon the 
wall and the sleeping one, over which it 
seemed to be keeping guard. 

Delicate little paintings, with their dainty 
frames of velvet and gilt hung here and 
there, procured, it would seem, from time to 
time, as pleased Margaret’s fancy, and placed 
wherever she could find room for them ; for what 
with paintings and flowers and an occasional bit 
of statuary, every niche in the room seemed * 
full. 

This room was manifestly a place to enjoy — 
to live in. 

Margaret sat in thoughtful attitude, a book 
in her hand. She was weary with writing, 
and had taken a few minutes to rest. What 
book had she chosen for this brief diversion? 


324 


TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 


She was reading half aloud, though in a mere 
undertone. These were the words upon which 
she rested, ere she went back to pen her 
helping thoughts for the young people for 
whom she wrote. 

“I write unto you, little children, because 
your sins are forgiven you for His name’s sake.” 

“ And now, little children, abide in Him ; 
that, when He shall appear, we may have 
confidence, and not be ashamed before Him at 
his coming.” 

Harold Lawton went back to his college 
with good resolutions that were icept. 

“Who is that young man?” inquired an 
elderly gentleman of President Small, upon 
commencement day several years later, when the 
class to which Harold belonged was to graduate. 

“ Which?” 

“ The one who finished his essay a few 
moments ago.” 

“The one whose subject was ‘Failures and 


LAST GLIMPSES. 


325 


Successes’? Oh, that is Lawton, one of the 
best scholars, in every sense of the word.” 

So far back, and so nobly retrieved, was 
♦ that first sad experiment of his, that Presi- 
dent Small had well-nigh forgotten it. At all 
events, he did not mention it. 

The gentleman watching Harold a moment, 
said to his companion : “ There’s something 

very striking about that face, I felt sure 
President Small would tell me something 
unusual about him.” 

“What did you expect, father?” questioned 
the young lady. 

“ I don’t know exactly, dear. I am old 
now, and given to dreaming about people. 
But I imagined that young fellow had got 
up to a plane where he felt safe, and that 
he would hold on like iron. Yes, Minnie, I 
fancied he’d been almost shipwrecked.” 

I think I can give one hint which will 
suffice for both Allan and Bertie. Just a 


326 TO-DAYS AND YESTERDAYS. 

t 

word of a plain gold ring upon Bertie’s 
finger ; of frequent closely-written letters that 
came to her from the city where Allan had 
gone ; of a snatch of a conversation between her- 
self and her father, a year after we last saw her. 

“It seems very new, my darling. What can 
I do without you ? ” 

“Nothing, I guess. We must arrange that. 
Neither Allan nor I would wish me to be far away 
. from you.” 

“ Well, then, I won’t complain. But three 
months is a very short time ! Only I know I 
am to give my little girl to a noble man, who 
will be very tender with her. I have no fears 
for my little Bertie.” 

Alone in her room that night, Bertie smiled 
at those last words. “ No fears ! ” Ah, that 
was all her father thought it needful to say ! 
But her young heart was pulsing to what she 
felt was a joyous certainty. Kneeling, a few 
moments later in the pale moonlight, she com- 
mitted herself, her dear ones, and her sweet 


LAST GLIMPSES. 


327 


coming days to Him in whose care she was not 
afraid to leave them. 

Sweet little Bertie ! He has kept you indeed 
“ unspotted from the world.” 

And now the time to say good-by has come, 
dear young friends whose eager faces have bent 
above these pages. 

You have read what my thoughts have been 
of Bertie, Louise, and Margaret. Shall I tell 
you now what they are of you, my dear unknown 
friend ? 

Your face and name I may never know, but 
something of the questionings that fill your mind, 
something of your longings for a nobler living, 
I think I do know. 

The question comes to you to-day as surely 
as it came to Margaret, “ Will ye have this Christ 
or no ? ” And as surely you will answer it — 
not in words, perhaps, but by your life. 

I would that the answer might be : “ Yea , 
Lord , for Thou callest me” 





















































































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